


Anamnesis

by pipermca



Series: Black on White on Black [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, IDW-based AU, M/M, Mnemosurgery, Post-War, Romantic Fluff, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-04 11:17:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 31,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11554080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipermca/pseuds/pipermca
Summary: When Jazz and his team are lost on a mission, Prowl has to carry on alone. But a discovery a thousand vorns later could turn his life upside down again.





	1. Routine Mission

The blurry image on the screen belied the threat it represented. “Unfortunately, this is the best visual we could get of the Decepticon’s research facility on Pembin 4 Gamma, imaged from a distance of nearly thirty million kilometers,” the Autobot’s Chief Tactical Officer said, gesturing at the image. “Over the past two vorns, they have steadily increased the patrols in the system, and all traffic near the moon’s orbit is tracked and challenged.”

Prowl turned back to the officers present at the briefing. “However, the transmissions to and from the research facility, as well as requisition orders that Jazz’s team previously obtained, have led us to believe that the Decepticons are working on something big – possibly something bigger than they have ever developed before. And keep in mind, this is the same weapons lab that developed the incendiary devices used on Ombrel 3, and the fission weapons that we are now seeing on all of their larger destroyers.” 

That bit of information caused a grim silence to fall over the meeting before Optimus Prime spoke up. “Those two weapons alone have been responsible for tens of thousands of Autobot casualties.”

Prowl inclined his helm in agreement. “So I believe it is imperative that we move quickly to find out what they are working on.” The Praxian turned to the Special Operatives Commander sitting across the table from him. “Jazz?”

Jazz leaned forward in his seat. “Fortunately, our own researchers haven’t been sleepin’ on the job. We’ve got an improved stealth shuttle that we can use as our insertion craft. It’s short range, so we’ve got a hop ship standing by to jump into the system, drop us off, and jump out – hopefully before the ‘Cons notice anything.” 

Prowl changed the image on his screen with his data pad to a map of the area around the base. “The infiltration team will land some distance from the base, make their way to the research facility, obtain whatever intelligence they can, and leave the same way they came. At a pre-determined time, they will meet the hop ship at the rendezvous point for extraction.”

“Routine, as much as these things can be,” Jazz said lightly. “We’ll be back within an orbital cycle.”

“When will your team be ready to go?” Prime asked the spy.

“I’ve already commed Bumblebee and Trailbreaker to meet me in the shuttle hanger, and the hop ship is meeting us in orbit,” he replied. “We’ll be on our way in two groons.”

“Very well. Good hunting, Jazz,” Prime said, climbing to his feet. “Meeting adjourned.”

As the rest of the officers filed out of the meeting room, Jazz came around to Prowl’s side of the table. He leaned against the edge as Prowl gathered his data pads. “So, Prowler,” he drawled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were sending me away to avoid the very important milepost that’s comin’ up.”

The tactician stood up and looked Jazz straight in his visor. “Milepost?”

“Prowl, the walking computer, doesn’t remember that the five-hundredth anniversary of our first date is coming up?” Jazz placed a hand on his chest over his spark. “I’m hurt.”

Prowl placed his hand over Jazz’s on his chest, his optics brightening. “Of course I remembered, Jazz,” he said, evenly meeting Jazz’s gaze. “But this intelligence you gathered on your last mission could mean – “

“I know, I know,” Jazz said, shaking his helm. “If only I wasn’t so good at my job. Frag me, right?”

With a small smile on his face, Prowl replied, “If you wish, upon your return.”

Jazz threw his helm back in a peal of laughter. Catching Prowl’s waist with his free hand, he pulled the tactician against his own frame. “Ai’ght, mech. But seriously, when I get back I’m gonna break out that bottle of high-grade I’ve been saving for a special occasion, and we’ll make a night of it,” Jazz said. He brought his other arm around Prowl and drew him in for an embrace. 

“I shall reserve the entire evening for you when you return,” Prowl said. He placed a single digit under Jazz’s chin to tilt the Polyhexian’s face slightly towards his, leaning forward and catching Jazz’s lips with his. “And possibly the next morning as well,” he murmured into Jazz’s mouth.

Jazz laughed, his throaty chuckle stirring Prowl’s spark into a dizzy twirl. The two black and whites kissed for a long moment before Jazz’s comm chimed at him, and he broke away with a sigh. “My team’s waitin’ for me in the hanger,” Jazz said. “I gotta go.”

Prowl nodded curtly. He embraced Jazz once more, running his hands up the racer’s back struts and bringing his mouth next to Jazz’s audials. “Return safely, Jazz” he whispered, before pulling himself away.

With a winking flash of his visor, Jazz planted a kiss in the middle of the Praxian’s chevron before stepping out of reach. “Of course, sweetspark,” he said. “G’bye, Prowler.”

“Goodbye, Jazz,” Prowl said, watching with dim optics as his lover turned and walked out of the room. Alone, Prowl watched the door for a long moment, doorwings sagging slightly. Then, collecting himself, he finished gathering his work. 

There was much to do.

***

The Autobot listening post in the Bihnan system picked up the first Decepticon distress call from Pembin, and automatically switched all available resources in that direction. The distress call was automated and unencrypted, but all of the subsequent traffic was encoded with a new cypher the Decepticons had not used previously. 

While the Autobot codebreakers immediately began work on the new cypher, their eye in orbit at the far reaches of the Pembin system recorded the aftermath of a devastating explosion. When the moon with the Decepticon base on it emerged from the shadow of its planet, the satellite observed that the base and its research facility, previously nestled at the foot of a long-dead volcano, had been turned into a second crater. What little that survived the initial explosion had been buried beneath a landslide from the sheltering mountain.

However, what the surveillance team manning the satellite feeds found even more interesting than the utterly destroyed base was that the Decepticons returned to the system with a destroyer. Instead of initiating a search of the base for either survivors or salvageable weapons, the destroyer blasted the site of the destroyed base: first with carpet bombing, and then with its fission weapon, melting the rubble into glass.

Then the Decepticons fled the system completely, as if Mortilus himself was chasing them. 

The surveillance team dutifully reported their findings to the listening post, who combined their interpretation of the encoded messages with the images. The communication traffic consisted mostly of damage estimates, and approvals for despoilment. “Orders: Leave nothing to be found. Leave nothing to be discovered.” 

The listening post transmitted its findings to Autobot Central Command and turned its attention back to the rest of its listening area.

Half a cycle later, an Autobot hop ship appeared in the Pembin system.

***

Prowl’s office door beeped. “Come,” he called without looking up from the two data pads he was reviewing.

“Prowl.”

At the voice, Prowl looked up sharply and stood, his door wings at full attention. “Prime,” he said. 

Optimus’s optics were dim. “Sit down, Prowl,” he said, taking a seat across the desk from his Chief Tactical Officer. He held a data pad out. “We received a report from the Bihnan listening post.”

The black and white mech took the data pad and read it quickly. His optics widened as he read the details. “Extraordinary,” he said. “We have never seen them take such care to cover their tracks. They must have been working on something remarkable. I look forward to hearing the report from Jazz and his team when they return.”

Optimus shifted in his chair. “Prowl,” he said, and paused.

Prowl’s door wings twitched once, and again. “Prime?” he asked. When Optimus did not answer immediately, he pressed, “The infiltration team?” 

Optimus leaned across the desk, his height making it easy to place a hand on the Praxian’s shoulder. “The hop ship arrived six cycles after the explosion. They sent a shuttle to scan the remains of the base, but... There was nothing left. No sign, no signals, just... ruins and molten glass.” He pulled his hand away and handed Prowl a second data pad. “But, if you think there’s a chance...”

There was a long pause as Prowl read the second pad. He finished reading the second, then returned to the first pad. “I... Their chances of survival...” His door wings sagged. “With the Decepticon activity in the neighbouring systems, the amount of destruction reported at the base, our current resources, and the... strength of the initial explosion...” He shook his helm slowly.

Optimus watched Prowl’s door wings tremble in their lowered position for a moment before the Praxian snapped them firmly to attention. Gently placing both pads on his desk, Prowl folded his hands carefully. “I... cannot justify a rescue attempt with the information I have available.” His vocalizer crackled with static. “This is... unfortunate. It is a... It is a huge... Loss.”

“I’m sorry, Prowl.” Optimus lowered his helm. “I know you and Jazz were close… More than just close. I’d like for you to take as much time as you –“

“Prime.” Prowl took a deep vent and met his optics with his own, glowing brightly. His vocalizer was now clear and steady. “Jazz and I both understood our reality, and accepted our roles. We are at war. Either of us could be deactivated at any moment. But we both also serve important functions in the Autobot cause.” He sat up straighter in his chair, his door wings quivering. “This was a great loss for us, but we must be prepared to press whatever advantage the Decepticons’ loss might give us.” He glanced away, adding softly, “I have no time to mourn. None of us do.” 

Optimus’s eyebrow ridge creased in a frown. “We shall always have time to remember those who were close to us,” he said quietly. 

Prowl stared down at his desk and at the data pads Optimus had given him. “I shall do so in my own way, Prime. Right now, the best thing I can do is work.”

His frown deepened, but Optimus finally nodded slowly. “Fine. You will let Ratchet or me know if you need time. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

With his own deep exvent, Optimis added, “I will pay tribute to them tomorrow. Is there anything you would like me to add for... any of them?”

Looking up at Optimus, his optics still bright, Prowl said, “They were good mechs.” 

Nodding, Optimus turned and walked silently out of the office. The door shushed shut behind him, so he did not see Prowl’s exvent as his door wings fell from their erect position.

...did not see Prowl’s optics offline.

...did not see Prowl heave another deep vent as his helm bowed to rest on the data pads that contained the report of his lover’s death.

...did not hear Prowl say, just on the edge of hearing, “Oh, Jazz.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was *supposed* to be a short story, and look what happened!
> 
> The story is complete, I'm just finishing up the final editing. Expect a chapter every day or so.


	2. Wearing Your Emotions on Your Wings

The mess hall was always busy in the morning, with mechs just starting their days jostling with tired mechs relaxing with their friends before recharge. It was the one time during the day that almost everyone on the base was awake at once, and Prime used that moment for his morning address.

Sometimes the address was good news, or encouraging words. Sometimes it was bad news, and sometimes it brought terrible news of new casualties in the interminable war against Megatron and the Decepticons.

Today, it was terrible news.

“My fellow Autobots, I have sad news,” Optimus Prime began. “Ten cycles ago, we lost three of our friends and comrades. They were on a mission to provide us with valuable information, and we commend them for their sacrifices.

“Second-lieutenant Trailbreaker. First-lieutenant Bumblebee. Commander Jazz.

“They were all good mechs. Their light will forever touch those they have left behind. Please think of them today, and remember why we fight.

“Till all are one.”

A stunned silence settled on the mess hall for a long minute before conversations picked up again, muted in deference to those still staring at their morning energon in disbelief.

“Aww, frag. The whole team!” exclaimed Mirage to Smokescreen. He rested his faceplate in the palms of his hands. “Maybe if I’d gone with them –“

Smokescreen shook his helm. “No way, Mirage, don’t start thinking like that. You’ve got no idea what happened. You know just as well as me – those Spec Ops missions are... Well, there’s a good chance you would have ended up deactivated alongside them.”

Mirage frowned. “You’re probably right,” he said. “Still. I can’t help but think I might have been able to do... Something.” He shook his own helm. “Poor Jazz,” he added.

“Poor Prowl,” muttered Smokescreen into his cube. 

***

It was a terrible routine that no one relished: announce the fatalities, then clean out their quarters to make room for new mechs.

Jazz’s wishes were easy to accommodate as Ironhide and Smokescreen sorted through the saboteur’s belongings. His collection of music from thousands of civilizations, all neatly sorted and cross-indexed on several data slugs, was given to Blaster. His Vosian crystal daggers were given to Mirage. His electro-bass, sitting on its stand in the corner by his berth where Jazz had left it, was to be given to Prowl.

Aside from those items, Jazz did not have much else to distribute or dispose of: the usual assortment of toiletries, a few keepsakes from his travels, and a couple of bottles of premium-quality high grade, one of them unopened. Millennia of war and upheaval prompted most mechs to keep their belongings trimmed down.

“What’s this?” Ironhide asked as he opened the bottom drawer on the table next to the berth. He took out a sealed box and handed it to Smokescreen.

“To Prowl,” Smokescreen read. “I guess I’ll take this to him along with the instrument.”

Ironhide stood up from where he was finishing boxing up the rest of Jazz’s life. “Did you want me to come along?”

“Thanks, but no,” Smokescreen said. “I’ll be all right.”

But “all right” was not how Smokescreen felt as his stood outside of Prowl’s quarters, the electro-bass in its case in one hand, the box in his other. He steeled himself and buzzed for entrance.

A moment later the door opened. “Hello, Smokescreen,” said Prowl, taking in the mech and the items he was carrying. He stepped aside. “Please, come in.”

Smokescreen stepped into Prowl’s quarters and stood in the center of the room dumbly. “Um –“ He held out the case. “From Jazz...”

Prowl took the case, setting it on a table, and opened it. After staring at it for a moment, he brushed his digits against the frets of the instrument. Smokescreen saw the minute tremble in the tactician’s door wings, where others might not have noticed. “Did you – did you want me to set it up on its stand in the corner? Over there, maybe?” He gestured towards an empty area near the couch.

Ducking his helm, Prowl replied, “Yes, please. Thank you.” As the other Praxian moved to set up the stand, he added, “Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thanks, I’m fine.” Smokescreen set the instrument in the stand and turned around. Prowl was looking past him at the electro-bass. “So, uh, did Jazz ever teach you to play it?”

Door wings twitched subtly. “No, and I never asked him to. He...” Smokescreen could hear Prowl struggling to keep the static out of his voice. “...he was always the one who played for me.”

“He was pretty good,” Smokescreen said awkwardly.

“He was fantastic,” Prowl said, still gazing at the instrument. 

Remembering the box they had found in Jazz’s quarters, Smokescreen retrieved it from the couch where he had placed it. “We found this, too.” He handed the box to Prowl. “It has your name on it.”

Prowl took the box, his face expressionless. However, his door wings drooped so drastically that Smokescreen was surprised the mech was not wailing in grief. Unable to bear it any longer, Smokescreen stepped close to the other Praxian. “Prowl,” he said, reaching for the tactician’s shoulders. “Are you…”

Later, Smokescreen would swear that the mech must have deleted his emotion processes right then and there. He looked up at the taller mech, his door wings swinging back into their erect position, his faceplates still unreadable. “I am fine, Smokescreen,” he said. “Thank you very much for bringing me these items. Now, if you please, I still have a lot of work to do.” He gestured at the stack of data pads stacked on his table.

“Of course,” replied Smokescreen. “You’ll let someone know if you need anything?”

“I will. Good night, Smokescreen.”

“Night,” said Smokescreen as the door closed behind him. He turned and faced the metal, his spark disquieted.

***

A deca-cycle after his promotion to Spec Ops Commander, Smokescreen was still feeling out of his depth. Not only was there the paperwork that he had never had to contend with before and endless meetings to attend, but now he had his own team to lead. At the end of each cycle he collapsed into his berth, more tired than he’d ever felt before.

Not to mention that he was now working closely with Prowl. Prowl put in insane hours, and it seemed his sole function was to create work for Smokescreen. The tactician was always thorough and precise and correct, so it stood out when he was not.

It was the little things that began to get Smokescreen’s attention. A review that was attached to an unrelated report. Missing signatures and approvals on documents returned to him. Mistakes from a mech that was famous for not making mistakes.

“Prowl? Sir?” The tactician looked up from his desk at the new Special Operatives Lead. Smokescreen had a momentary feeling that Prowl really did not see him standing there until he knocked again on the frame of the open door. “I was just wondering if you had those mission approvals ready for me yet.”

“Smokescreen. Yes. Come in. I am sure that I completed those. One moment.” Prowl gestured at the chair across from him, which Smokescreen took. He perched on the edge of the seat tensely.

Smokescreen watched as the other Praxian sifted through the stacks of data pads on his desk. Prowl was keeping his field pulled in tight against his frame, but Smokescreen was watching his door wings.

They trembled constantly. It was a minute quiver, only a few microns of movement in either direction, but Smokescreen had seen Prowl’s wings do this once before – after Praxus fell.

When Prowl twisted in his chair to look on the shelves behind him, his wings fell slightly. With Prowl’s back turned, Smokescreen saw the tremble amplify in the servos that controlled the angle and tilt of the wings. When Prowl turned around again, holding a few pads, he snapped them into place at shoulder-height once more. A moment later they started trembling again.

“Here you are,” Prowl said, handing the pads to Smokescreen. “My apologies for the tardiness.”

“Oh, it’s fine. I know that you’re – “ he had started glancing through the stack, and looked back up at Prowl. “Um... None of the approvals have been signed,” he said, tilting his own wings apologetically and handing the pads back.

“What?” Prowl looked at the pad at the top of the stack. His wings did droop this time. “I swear I reviewed these.” Looking back up at Smokescreen, he added, “Can you return in two groons? I will have them completed by then, you have my word. I will attend to them immediately.”

“Sure.” Smokescreen stood and made to leave Prowl’s office. “I’ll... uh... be back in a bit, then.”

Leaving Prowl hunched over the data pads, Smokescreen began to walk back to Jazz’s – err, **his** office, when he stopped suddenly and turned down another corridor. He had someone else he needed to see.

***

“Prime?”

Optimus Prime looked up, his optics brightening in greeting. “Smokescreen,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him “Please come in. What can I do for you?”

Settling into the chair, Smokescreen collected his thoughts before speaking. “Prime, I’m sorry if I’m speaking out of turn. I know I’m a new officer and all, but, I need you to do... something... about Prowl.”

“Prowl?” Optimus focused his attention completely on Smokescreen. Smokescreen felt as though Optimus’ optics were boring through him. “Has he been giving you trouble? I know he can be difficult to work with some times.”

“No, nothing like that,” Smokescreen said, waving his hand. “I just... He’s still slagged about Jazz. He might not say it, and his face won’t show it, but he is.” 

“We’re all missing Jazz,” Optimus said. “Prowl most of all, I’m sure. But he assured me that he can continue with his duties.”

“Prime, trust me,” Smokescreen insisted nervously. Optimus was still staring at him with laser focus. “He’s... messing up. And Prowl doesn’t mess up. I just had to return a bunch of pads to him because he hadn’t completed the approvals.” 

Optimus hummed. “I have noticed the same thing. However, none of the errors have been egregious.”

“Yet!” Smokescreen held up his hands, not wanting to accuse Prowl of doing anything wrong. “But it’s not just the work. Maybe you can’t tell because he’s always got the same slagging expression on his face, but he’s – he’s destroyed inside,” Smokescreen said quietly. He wiggled his own door wings. “He’s got great command of his optics and mouth, but these wings don’t lie. He’s dying inside. Someone’s got to talk to him, and he won’t talk to me. I’ve tried.”

Optimus frowned. “Have you told Ratchet?”

Smokescreen shook his helm. “I don’t want him to feel like I’m ratting him out, you know? New officer, low node on the antenna array, all that.” He lowered his voice slightly. “But I needed to tell someone.”

After a beat, Optimus nodded. “I understand. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Smokescreen.” Leaning forward, he added, “Is there anything specific that you think I should be watchful for?”

***

“Come,” Prowl called upon hearing his office door beep. When the door opened, he stood immediately when Optimus entered. “Prime,” he said in greeting. Then, his optics narrowed. “Ratchet.” He looked back to Optimus. “What can I do for you both?”

Optimus and Ratchet took seats at the desk, and Optimus gestured for Prowl to sit as well. “I’ll get straight to the point. Some of the staff have approached us with concerns about you. Specifically, how you are doing.”

Prowl sat stiffly in his chair. “I am fine,” he replied curtly. “I have been busy analyzing changes to Decepticon troop movements after they redeployed their forces following the destruction of their research facility.” He picked up a data pad. “As you can see, they have left a gap in their coverage in several key systems. In two cycles I should have a plan ready for presentation that will allow us to –“

“Stop.” Optimus waited until the tactician’s optics were on his again. “I am here about you. I am here because your friends are concerned how you are dealing with Jazz’s death.”

“Optimus has seen you at your worst, and I’ve seen inside your helm,” Ratchet added. “We both know you’re not an emotionless drone. You can’t keep that bottled up forever.”

Optics flashing and door wings spread to their fullest extent, Prowl stared at Ratchet. “I am not bottling anything up. I simply wish to be left to my work. The loss of the infiltration team was difficult for everyone; I am not special.”

“But Jazz was special to you,” Optimus said gently. Prowl’s door wings fell, only the width of a single digit, but Optimus was watching closely. “And even a non-Praxian can see the effect this has had on you,” he said, pointing at the wings.

Prowl jerked his wings back up before letting them fall again. “I… I have been struggling.” He fussily rearranged the pads on his desk into neater piles. “There has been more data to review, and with a new Spec Ops Lead to train in Ja– “ Prowl’s vocalizer shorted out. He reset it. “A new Spec Ops Lead to... to train, I am afraid my workload may be affecting my recharge cycles. But I assure you, I am addressing any issues that may affect my work. There is much to be done.”

“Prowl,” Optimus started to say. 

“I cannot risk us losing an advantage that might –“

“The longer this goes on, the more likely you are of making a serious mistake,” Ratchet growled. 

“I cannot afford to make any more serious mistakes!” Prowl snapped at the medic, his optics flashing. Pulling himself back with a visible effort, Prowl continued, “I... We cannot afford to send more of our people into an impossible situation.”

“Prowl,” Optimus said again. He reached across the desk and placed one of his giant hands over one of Prowl’s. “Their deaths were not your fault.”

“I approved the mission,” Prowl said, almost below hearing. Slightly louder, he added, “They were there because I approved it.”

“You approved it because the mission was deemed critical, and that the risks were acceptable.” Optimus waited until Prowl lifted his helm to look at the larger mech. “I know you would not have approved the mission if you thought for even a nanosecond that the possible gains were not worth the possible risks.”

Prowl said nothing for a moment. He heaved a vent and shuttered his optics. “You are correct. I believed the risks to be acceptable. I still believe they were; Jazz and his team have successfully completed missions that were more complex than this one.” He looked up at Optimus again with flickering optics. “I wish I knew what went wrong,” he added quietly.

Optimus’s expression softened. “I am truly sorry that Jazz and the others are gone. And you are right... There is little room in this war for sentiment. However, I also need my Chief Tactical Officer to be at his best.” He squeezed Prowl’s hand. “Please, Prowl. Take some time for yourself.”

“But the Decepticons...” 

Prowl’s optics flicked to Ratchet as the Chief Medical Officer spoke. “The Decepticons can wait for now, Prowl. You might pretend at being nothing more than the personification of your tactical computer, but I know better. So does Prime, and so do you. Give yourself some time to mourn. Let yourself miss him. Don’t let that wound continue to fester.”

“That’s an order, Prowl,” Optimus added, his tone one of finality.

Optics cast down onto his desk, Prowl nodded. “Yes, sir.”

***

“Lights, fifty percent.”

The lights in Prowl’s quarters came up, illuminating the black and white mech sitting on the edge of his couch. He sat leaning forward, resting his elbows on the struts of his upper legs. 

Between his hands he held a box bearing his name.

It had been silly, really. He knew that the box was not some kind of quantum device, allowing Jazz to be both alive and dead at the same time. But a small, hopeful part of Prowl’s spark held onto the misconception that if he never opened the box, then Jazz would come back. 

Prowl cycled his optics and exvented softly. Jazz was not coming back. And Optimus and Ratchet were right: he had not been operating at peak efficiency ever since getting the news. 

He turned the box over in his hands again. “Happy anniversary, Jazz,” he said to the empty room, his voice full of static. He opened the top of the box.

Nestled in carved foam was an enamel ornament about the size of his palm, shaped like an Earth note symbol. It was the blue of Jazz’s racing stripes, edged in the red of Prowl’s chevron. The edging of the ornament indicated that it was meant to be an inlay on a mech’s body panel.

Prowl’s spark clenched painfully, knowing what it probably represented, but hoping that he was wrong. He lifted the ornament from the foam and cradled it in his hand before noticing a slip of paper tucked underneath.

He set the ornament and box beside him on the couch, and opened the note with shaking hands.

In Jazz’s untidy handwriting, the note read, “Prowler: Be my conjunx endura? Love ya always. Jazz.”

The words blurred in his vision. Prowl felt the walls he had carefully constructed around his spark crumble. 

With the note in one hand and the ornament in his other, Prowl leaned back on the couch, his helm resting against the wall, and finally let himself miss the other half of his spark.


	3. From Ashes

The war dragged on, advantage reeling from one side to the other and back again. As the other members of the Galactic Council watched in impotent horror, the Cybertronians waged their battles across countless systems. Every planet that the endless war touched bore enduring scars, and hardly a single space-worthy civilization was not drawn into the conflict in some way.

The war dragged on, until, finally, it did not. With a great final push, orchestrated with strategic genius, Megatron fell, and the Decepticon cause fell alongside him. 

As with all seemingly endless wars, the fighting did not stop immediately. But over several decavorns, the news spread across the galaxy: Peace had been achieved. Come home. 

Peace **had** been achieved, but all was not forgiven, of course. For the Galactic Council, their member species had seen unthinkable slaughter of innocent organics, and there must be reparations. Lord Starscream, already dealing with the post-war unrest that the devastation of Cybertron had brought, seized upon the Council’s demands as a way to keep citizens busy and to keep the organics off his back, at least for a while.

The Reconstruction efforts were engaged on two fronts. First, the major cities of Cybertron were to be rebuilt, with Iacon as the capital and first project. Second, the Cybertronians would begin remediation of still-habitable worlds that their war had destroyed. 

The Reconstruction Office created a list of planets slated for remediation, as prioritized by the Galactic Council’s member species. Crews were assembled and trained, and then were dispatched by the Reconstruction Office. 

Not unexpectedly, everywhere the teams landed, they found the frames of the deceased. At first the remediation teams merely sent the bodies back for smelting and reforging into new frames, should sparks be found for them. However, as soon as the Iaconian Gazette got wind of this, the outcry from the citizens forced Lord Starscream to order a change of plans. 

It was slow and tedious work, but each frame was identified, if possible, and friends of the deceased were sought, if there were any. Autobot or Decepticon did not matter: what mattered was that the frames were only sent for smelting with proper rites and acknowledgement. 

The citizens were done with their friends, who died anonymously on foreign planets, being sent to the Well with their passing unremarked.

***

“I think they found the mother lode this time,” Pipette said, handing First Aid a data pad. “Sounds like they uncovered another tunnel under the main complex. It must have been a chokepoint or something; they found eight frames yesterday, and today there are eleven more.”

First Aid scanned the data pad with interest as he walked into the lab. “If this keeps up we’ll need to requisition additional help,” he said. Looking up, he saw that the examination tables were almost filled. “Or additional space!”

Pipette laughed. “Well, there’s a few more tables left. We don’t know how many ‘Cons were stationed here, but there can’t be that many more.”

“Mechs, Pipette, not ‘Cons,” First Aid admonished his assistant gently. “They’re all just mechs now. And our job is to identify them.”

Chastened, Pipette grabbed a hand-held scanner from the charger and held it out to the red and white mech. “I’m sorry. I know.”

“It’s all right. Now, how about you start on this side and I’ll start on the other?” First Aid nodded at the minibot, and started scanning the first crushed frame on his side.

The first step for the forensic work was to make sure there was no latent radiation or other contamination that might disrupt their work. While the first kilometer or so from the surface of the moon had been nothing but unidentifiable melted slag, the network of tunnels under the base went further down than anyone had guessed. The base had included a weapons research lab, and several unfortunate incidents had forced the remediation to slow to a crawl. The worst one had been the discovery of a metal-eating bacteria that the team had mistaken for lichen. Ever since then, everyone moved carefully and with deliberation. 

First Aid checked the readings from the first frame. There were no worrying radiation readings, but the frame itself had deteriorated enough that no serial tags had pinged back to his scanner, either. He poked at it gently with a probe, sighing at the cascade of rust that fell to the table.

That was another reason the remediation on this moon was taking so much longer than other sites: the climate. It was perfect for organics: warm and wet. It was no wonder that the Tkarians requested the moon as a high priority project. It also sported amazing skies and lush greenery, which First Aid appreciated on an aesthetic level, but it all made for poor preservation of metal bodies. The identification process, like the remediation itself, was time-consuming.

First Aid made some notes on his data pad. The mech may have once had a faceplate, but all that remained were the hookups on one side of his helm. The left side of his helm was missing, as was his left shoulder, arm, most of his torso, and both of his legs. Identifying this frame would be difficult.

Methodically, he moved to the next frame, scanning and making notes, then on to the third. When he reached the fourth, though, his scanner chirped.

With a frown, he adjusted the scanner and tried again. It chirped. “It can’t be,” he muttered, peering at the mech on the table. It was mostly intact, except corroded almost beyond recognition. The frame was dented and rusted in several places, and only a ghost of yellow paint remained on the curve of its collar armour.

The scanner chirped a third time, and First Aid threw it down on the table, rushing to the end of the lab.

Pipette looked up from his work, his visor darkening with concern. “First Aid?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s impossible,” the medic said, distracted, as he grabbed another instrument and ran back to the frame he had been inspecting. The red and white mech’s visor flashed as his medic protocols onlined suddenly. 

“Get me a statis pod immediately, and see if you can rig together a spark monitor. There’s some spare scanner parts in the store room that we might be able to salvage parts from to make that happen.”

“A statis pod?” Pipette asked, confused. He looked at the mech that had caused First Aid’s outburst. “You’re not saying that – that he’s...”

First Aid was moving from table to table, quickly scanning the remaining frames. “Two statis pods. Make that three! These mechs’ sparks are still active.”

“What? That’s impossible.”

First Aid looked up at the minibot, his expression commanding immediate attention. “And once we’ve got these mechs into statis pods, get a hold of Kaput on Caminus. He’s a spark specialist and might be able to help us remotely.” 

When Pipette continued to gawk, First Aid turned to him and exclaimed, “Move! Now!”

***

“Sir?” 

Prowl looked up from his work. “Yes?”

“Medic Ratchet is here to see you.”

Frowning, Prowl set down the data pad he had been working on. “Ratchet?” he asked. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, sir, but he was insistent.”

“Very well, show him in.” When his assistant disappeared from his doorway, Prowl rubbed his optics. It had been a long day already, and he still had to review the requisition requests from four more teams. 

But he stood when Ratchet entered his office. “Ratchet,” he said, extending his arm to grasp Ratchet’s. 

Ratchet gripped his forearm in return. “It’s been a long time, Prowl,” he said. He took the seat that Prowl offered, and Prowl settled back into his own.

“It has been a long time, Medic Ratchet” Prowl replied, a question in his tone at the mech’s title. 

Ratchet grunted. “Well, the war’s over. I’m not Chief Medical Officer of anything, not any more. I’m just a medic, which suits me fine.” He nodded and glanced around the office, his gaze pausing at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Iacon. “But you seem to be doing well. Minister of the Reconstruction Office? It has a nice ring to it. Do you get off-world often?”

“I am a coordinator for the reconstruction of Cybertron, under Deputy Minister Avalanche,” Prowl corrected, emphasizing his position and the planet’s name. “Deputy Minister Thundercracker’s office is responsible for off-world remediation.”

“And how’s that going? Off the record?”

Prowl tilted his helm slightly. “According to reports, as well as can be expected.” He paused. “But I do not think you came here to talk about remediation.”

“No,” said Ratchet tiredly. He dropped his gaze to Prowl’s collar, just beside his left shoulder. An enamel blue Earth note symbol was set into his body panel as an inlay. He nodded at it. “You still wear that, after all this time.”

Prowl’s door wings rose slightly as his back stiffened. “Yes, I do.” His blue optics shifted to look out the window. “It was a promise gift that I would have accepted, had he lived. It seems only right that I wear it.” A spot of light in the darkening sky indicated where a shuttle was coming in for final approach at the space port, several kilometers away. Prowl tracked it for a few moments before asking, “What do you want, Ratchet?”

Prowl looked back to Ratchet as the medic sighed rested his hands on his knees. “I’ll get right to the point, Prowl. Off-world remediation began on Pembin 4 Gamma three vorns ago.”

“I know this. I have read the quarterly reports. The destruction was complete. Very little of the base is left.” Prowl’s replies were curt. He did not want to pick at that old wound again.

“Do you know that they’ve just started getting into the lower tunnels? Where they’re finding frames?”

Prowl stared at Ratchet, unaware that his digits were slowly pressing dents into the armrests of his chair. He opened his mouth, but paused to reset his vocalizer when only static came out. “Frames? Have they found...”

“There’s more, Prowl.” Ratchet glanced at Prowl’s hands. “Let go of your chair before you damage your servos.” When Prowl jerked his hands free, Ratchet continued. “They found three frames with sparks that are still active, but only barely. Jazz is one of those sparks.”

There was only a roaring noise in Prowl’s audials as the room whited out. Jazz. His processor reeled, trying to steady both the tilting of the room and his surging spark. Jazz. Absurd. Impossible. Jazz. It had been one-thousand, two-hundred and twenty-nine vorns since he watched his lover walk out of the meeting room. Jazz. Blue visor, glowing in a dark room above him. Jazz. A low, throaty laugh. Jazz.

“...a bad idea,” he heard Ratchet say as the roaring dulled and the room’s colours and shapes returned. Prowl noticed that the medic was now crouched next to his chair, holding the tactician’s shoulders to keep him from toppling over. “I knew this might glitch you out.” He peered into Prowl’s optics. “Back with me?”

Prowl nodded, leaning back and pressing a hand to his chest, just above his spark casing. His spark throbbed. “Jazz is... alive?” he asked, almost inaudibly.

“His spark is active, but beyond that we don’t know. His frame and processor sustained a lot of damage, and he’s been in statis lock for almost twelve-hundred vorns. His brain is mostly intact, but the climate was wet, and there’s probably been degradation of his memory.” Ratchet watched Prowl’s face closely as he continued. “We won’t know anything else until he gets here. He and the others are being transported to the Iacon Medical Centre in statis pods. Once they arrive we can do a full examination.”

His spark leaping and door wings fluttering, Prowl asked, “When will he arrive?”

“In ten cycles,” Ratchet replied. He put a hand back on Prowl’s shoulder. “But, listen –“ He exvented softly. “Slag. This is why I wanted to wait until we knew more. I need you to be prepared for the worst. His spark is still in critical condition, and there is a chance it might still fade. He might not remember anything. He might wake up a totally different mech. I don’t want you thinking that you and him can just pick up where you left off.”

“I understand.” With an effort, Prowl stilled his door wings. Placing his hands back on the dented armrests of his chair, he levered himself to his pedes and walked to the window. Night had settled over the city, which glowed with a million steady lights. “Thank you for telling me.”

With a promise to comm Prowl when the transport arrived, Ratchet took his leave. Prowl continued to stare out at the city that he had helped rebuild. He watched another shuttle circle for final approach. Absently, he placed a hand over the symbol on his shoulder, his digits tracing its edges. “Return safely, Jazz,” he whispered to the night.


	4. Reboot

Prowl watched the activity in the triage rooms helplessly. Medics swarmed over the three frames, working almost as one. 

All three frames were the muted grey of deactivation, except for a few hints here and there that showed that there might still be hope. But the frames themselves were crushed almost beyond recognition. “I cannot even tell which one is Jazz,” he said quietly.

Orion Pax stood beside Prowl in the observation room. He pointed at a monitor and said, “Ambulon told me that this one is Jazz,” he said.

Prowl looked closer at the monitor. The rotted frame on the examination table bore little resemblance to the mech he remembered. His helm had been partially crushed, like the others’, and his sensor horns, visor, and lower jaw were missing. While he still had all of his limbs, unlike the other two frames, his extremities were riddled through with rust and decay. He was half-hidden by the equipment attached to him: spark monitors, energon lines, processor display units, and a few other devices Prowl could not identify.

A shudder rippled down Prowl’s back strut, causing his door wings to tremble. He forced himself to look away to the other monitors. “And the others?”

“Bumblebee,” replied Orion, pointing at another monitor. “And Meltdown. The last records available for him indicate he was on the security team at the base.”

Looking back at the first monitor, Prowl watched as a medic adjusted one of the energon lines. “If only we had known. We had such limited intelligence about the base layout. We could have sent a team to search the lower tunnels. We could have –“

Orion grabbed Prowl’s shoulder with a firm hand. “Stop that,” he said. “Even now, in peacetime, it took the remediation team almost four vorns to reach the tunnel where Jazz and Bumblebee were found. We didn’t have the luxury of time, or the resources, to do that after it happened.” He waited until Prowl looked up at him. “You are guilty of nothing here.”

Cycling his optics, Prowl nodded. “Yes, Pax,” he said. “You are right, of course.” He glanced between the three monitors, unable to look at Jazz’s mangled frame for long. “At the time, I calculated the team’s chance of survival at 0.32%, using the information that I had available. That was not sufficient to approve a recovery mission, even for –“ He waited for his vocalizer to steady for continuing, “Even for Jazz. I accept that I made the right choice based on what we knew at the time.”

Orion nodded. “Good.” He looked at the second monitor, where Ratchet was busying himself at one of the monitors hooked up to Bumblebee’s frame. “I’ve asked Ratchet to advise both of us when there is any news. Will you be staying here?”

Prowl shook his helm. “No. My home is not far from here, and I do not wish to be in the way or compromise their work. Besides, I have my own work.” He looked up at Orion again and forced a wan smile. “The rebuilding of Cybertron must continue.”

***

Dark. 

Then: Dark and [[ _safe/comfort/calm_ ]]

[[???]] 

[[ _safe/comfort/rest_ ]]

Dark. Safe. Rest.

***

“I’m sorry, Orion. We did everything we could.”

“I understand.”

“It was a matter of size. His spark was smaller than Jazz’s or Meltdown’s. No matter what we did, he still guttered.” Ratchet shook his helm. “But even knowing we tried everything doesn’t make it easier to hear, I know.”

Orion Pax stared at the minibot’s corroded frame. All of the sensors and monitors had been removed, making it seem even smaller. “I lost him once. Mourned him. Moved on. I shall do the same for him again.” He gathered himself, and Ratchet had a strange moment of deja vu. “What of Jazz and Meltdown?”

“Meltdown is alive, but his brain was completely corroded, and his memories are totally lost. We had a hard time even running a simple diagnostic. We’ll be able to boot him up once his frame is ready, but he’ll be like a new sparkling. Probably for the best,” he grumbled. “There are enough disgruntled ex-‘Cons in this city as it is.”

“And Jazz?”

“Salvageable, but we won’t know to what extent until we can start bringing his systems online and see what’s what. I’ve been keeping Prowl advised, like you’d asked.”

“Thank you.”

Ratchet hovered for a moment as Orion looked back down at Bumblebee’s frame. “I’ll give you some time alone here.” 

Ratchet quietly left the room and left Orion Pax alone with his thoughts and the spectre from the past.

***

Dark.

Then: Dark and [[ _safe/comfort/calm_ ]]

[[???]]

[[Query: Designation. Rank. Position.]]

[[Designation: Jazz. Rank: Commander, Autobot High Command. Position: Special Operatives Lead.]]

[[Query: Diagnostic, high-level.]]

[[Spark status: Energy at 42%. Memory status: damaged. Transformation cog status: unknown, sensors not responding. Frame status: unknown, sensors not responding. Processor status: nominal.]]

[[Query: Diagnostic, memory, detailed.]]

[[Memory status, detailed: Fragmentation at 82%. Memory errors at 62%. Lost clusters account for 35% of remaining memory.]]

[[ _safe/comfort/rest_ ]]

Dark. Safe. Rest.

***

It was like looking at a ghost, Prowl thought. The frame on the table certainly looked like Jazz, aside from the missing visor and the bare metal of an unpainted frame. He resisted the urge to run his digits down Jazz’s arm.

“It’s not perfect, of course, but it’ll do for now,” Ratchet said, admiring the handiwork that the body specialist had done. “It’ll be easier for him to adjust if his frame configuration is similar to whatever he remembers.” He looked up at Prowl and gestured towards a desk off to the side of the room. “Speaking of his memory, let’s talk.”

Firmly holding his door wings still, Prowl took the seat across from Ratchet. The medic picked up a data pad and handed it to the tactician. Prowl accepted it but kept his optics on Ratchet as the medic spoke. “So, the good news is that we were able to boot up his main processor, which seems to be in pretty good shape. That means he won’t need much work relearning how to move, talk, transform, or utilize his sensors. It also means that his Spec Ops protocols are still active, so that will need to be taken into consideration when we bring him back up completely.”

Nodding, Prowl tried to keep his impatience from showing in the cant of his wings. “And his memory?”

With a grunt, Ratchet said, “Good news and bad news. The good news is that he’s still in there. He remembers his designation, rank, and that he was an Autobot. He still has more than half of his memory, but the bad news is that the memory files themselves are scattered and badly fragmented. The mnemosurgeon was able to re-“

“A mnemosurgeon?” Prowl snarled, his wings snapping to their full spread. “You let one of those... those **butchers** touch Jazz?”

Ratchet held his hands up in front of him, digits spread wide. “It was strictly therapeutic. I know how you feel about mnemosurgery, but we didn’t have a choice! His name is Callosum if you wanted to look him up.” He waited until Prowl’s posture relaxed, if only slightly. “The memory fragmentation was so great that if we’d just brought him right up, his memory would be damaged even further. He’d end up with new memories overwriting the old, unconnected ones.” 

Fighting the roiling in his tanks, Prowl stared at his hands where they gripped the edge of the desk. When he was sure he could hold his voice steady, he said, “I apologize for the outburst. Go on.” 

“Callosum flagged all of Jazz’s existing, undamaged memories as not to be overwritten, and cleaned up the damaged ones as much as he could. Without Jazz’s consent,” Ratchet emphasized the word, watching Prowl closely, “he could not – **would not** – do more. Any further work will have to wait until Jazz is completely awake and he fully understands the risks in doing anything more.”

“I see,” said Prowl softly. “What are the next steps?”

“Well,” Ratchet said, leaning back in his chair. “We’ll bring his language and memory processors online, and I can do a more thorough assessment.” 

***

It was dark. Then there was a gentle touch that brought a wave of [[ _safe/comfort/calm_ ]].

[[Jazz?]]

Recognition as neural pathways lit up for the first time in ages. [[Yeah, Jazz here.]]

[[You’ve been in an accident, but you’re safe now. We just brought your memory and language processors back online. Do you understand?]]

[[Yeah. It must’ve been bad; I don’t remember anything about an accident.]]

A pause, bringing another wave of [[ _safe/comfort/calm_ ]]. 

[[It’s all right. We’ll get you back on your pedes. Just rest for now.]]

[[Ai’ght.]]

Dark.

***

After four groons of staring at the ceiling, Prowl finally concluded that falling into recharge was an unlikely outcome. However, he rolled onto his side and made one more attempt. With an effort, he stilled his processor, shuttered his optics, and...

_... long needles glinted at the end of slim digits, energon dripping from their tips. A growl. The glow from a gold visor. A brush on his neck..._

With a sharp invent, Prowl opened his optics. "Fine," he muttered to the empty room, and got up from the berth.

Stalking into the living area of his flat, Prowl stood before the window that looked north across the city. A kaleidoscope of lights twinkled among the streets and towers as mechs went about the business of living.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Prowl traced the faded scars that his digits could still feel there. He gritted his denta and tried to banish the image of long needles slipping into Jazz's neck. The intrusion. The violation. 

Surely there had been another way? Another tactic? Another...

Taking another deep vent, Prowl steadied himself. This was not something he could strategize a way through. He needed to let the experts work, and give Jazz time to heal... Or not.

He leaned his helm against the cool glass and focused on the lights of the city. All he could do was wait.

***

Dark. Then a gentle touch from a presence that Jazz recognized as a medic, directly connected to his processor.

[[Hello, Jazz. How are you feeling?]]

[[Don’t feel much of anything,’ to be honest. Who’s this?]]

A pause.

[[My name is Ratchet.]] The name came through with [[ _concern/anticipation_ ]].

[[Hiya, Ratchet. Nice to meet ya.]]

Jazz almost did not catch the subtle wash of [[ _sadness/regret_ ]] before it was overtaken with a firm and familiar [[ _safe/comfort/calm_ ]].

[[Jazz, I’m a medic. We’ve finished repairing your frame. I’m going to reconnect your processor to your frame sensors. We tested them while you were offline, so you shouldn’t feel any pain. Let me know if you do.]]

[[Ai’ght.]]

A moment later, Jazz could feel his frame. He was lying horizontally. Wherever he was, it was a pleasant temperature. He could feel lines and wires running across his body – medical equipment, he guessed. He tried to flex his digits.

[[I can’t move!]]

Another flood of [[ _safe/comfort/calm_ ]]. 

[[We’re just testing the connections. The next time we wake you, we’ll bring everything online: visual, audio, movement, your vocalizer, frame control, everything. Ok?]]

[[Ok.]]

[[ _safe/comfort/calm_ ]]

Dark.

***

“Well, he didn’t recognize my name, nor my presence in his processor,” Ratchet said, shuffling things around on the desk to avoid Prowl’s gaze. “But that’s not totally unusual after a traumatic event, and I’d say this qualifies.”

“Ratchet, please do not try to spare my feelings. I would rather know all of the facts than be blindsided by something I should have known,” Prowl said evenly. “You have made it quite clear that Jazz may not remember me... May not remember us. I have accepted that.”

The medic grimaced but nodded. “Fine. Yes. I would say there’s a good chance he won’t remember you... But with some work, that might change. It might not.” He raised his hands helplessly. “Who knows? But one way or the other, we’re going to bring him online in a few cycles.”

“I want to be here when you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> XD ... My spouse is terribly disappointed that Jazz didn't have a start up sound like Windows when they booted him up the first time.


	5. Awakening

Dark. The familiar feel of Ratchet projecting [[ _safe/comfort/calm_ ]].

[[Hello, Jazz. I’m going to bring everything online, one thing at a time. Ready?]]

[[Mech, I was sparked ready.]]

[[Flex your digits for me, please.]]

Jazz clenched his hand into a fist. He felt stiff, and shifted on the slab he was lying on. He tried to raise his arm, but he felt resistance and could not move it.

[[Hey, am I tied down?]]

[[Yes. Just relax. Audio next.]]

At first, the sudden sounds were deafening. As he adjusted his hearing, the rush of noise resolved into background noises: beeping, quiet clicks of digits on keyboard, a ventilation system. “This is Ratchet. Can you hear me? Respond on the hardline, since your vocaliser is still offline.” said a deep voice.

[[Yes, I can hear ya. Hey, optics next!]]

“I just love demanding patients,” grumbled Ratchet. “Fine, optics next.”

Searing light. Jazz waited until his optics adjusted before glancing around. A red and white mech with medic symbols on his shoulders leaned over the slab with a look of concern on his faceplates.

“Hi there, Jazz,” said the mech with Ratchet’s voice. “Do you remember me?”

Jazz stared at Ratchet for a moment while the medic...

_...was elbow deep in a mech’s chest, energon staining both of their frames. He yelled for assistance, but stayed focused on his work to save the mech’s life._

_...finished a weld on a red mech who was energetically explaining something to the yellow mech beside him. He stopped and snapped something at his patient, who stilled immediately._

_...laughed and raised a glass of high-grade, downing it in a single shot before gasping and laughing again._

_The scent of arc welder fumes and disinfectant._

[[Yes? No. I – maybe?]]

Nodding curtly, Ratchet tapped at something on the workstation beside the slab. “That’s fine, and pretty much what we suspected. There are some gaps in your memory, but we’ll see what we can do to fix it.”

[[I... saw some flashes. I think I know you... Or did know you, once?]]

The medic’s expression softened. “Even that’s promising. Yes, we did know each other. I’m going to bring your vocalizer online next.”

A burst of static erupted from Jazz’s vocalizer before he could stop it. Ratchet made some adjustments on the workstation before saying, “Ok, try again.”

“Yessir, Ratchet,” Jazz said, a trace of static still left in his voice. “Sound check check! One, two three, check check!” The static cleared, and he smiled at the medic. “Good as new, right?”

“I’m going to bring the rest of your systems online now. Let me know if you experience any glitches or other problems.”

It was like waking up in pieces, and it made Jazz uncomfortable realizing how much information he hadn’t been receiving from his sensors. To distract himself, Jazz tilted his helm from side to side as much as he could to look around the room. The lights at the edge of the room were kept low, but he zeroed in on a set of blue optics glowing in the shadows near the door. He tried to raise his helm to get a better look, but his helm was also restrained.

Jazz flexed against the straps holding him to the slab. “Uh, doc, why am I tied up?”

Not looking away from the monitor he was focused on, Ratchet said, “Because we didn’t know how your Spec Ops protocols would react to such a strange reboot.” He looked down at the racer. “Sorry, but I’m going to leave them in place for just a while longer. You’ve still got a lot of repairs that need to be completed before you can get up.”

With a long exvent, Jazz tilted his helm back towards the mech in the shadows. “Who’s the lurker?”

Ratchet glanced at Jazz and then up at the other mech. He waved the other mech over.

As the mech emerged from the shadows, Jazz saw that it was a Praxian, painted simply in black and white, with a red chevron. An unfamiliar blue sigil was set as an inlay in his chest plate near his left shoulder. His door wings were held in a neutral position, but Jazz could see the concentration it was taking the mech to keep the wings from moving.

As the Praxian neared the slab, he...

_...looked up from his data pad with an irritated flick of his door wings. He leaned forward over a desk, his blue optics intense._

_...ducked behind a rock to avoid a blaster bolt, all grace and speed and power. He waited a klik before spinning back around the rock, his deadly aim flawlessly picking off another enemy._

_...arched his helm back, his optics blazing to white out. He trembled, hands scrabbling at the surface below him, mouth open in a soundless scream._

_The scent of expensive high-grade and frame cleanser._

What the...

Jazz recoiled away from the Praxian as much as his bonds would allow, confused. At his sudden movement, the mech stopped his approach and stood where he was, his door wings listing downwards slightly.

Not noticing Jazz’s reaction, Ratchet finished at the workstation and looked up. He gestured the other mech closer to the slab impatiently. “Come on,” he said. The black and white mech walked forward a few more steps, but stopped several paces away. “Jazz, do you know this mech’s name?” Ratchet asked.

Jazz kept silent, staring at the Praxian. He glanced up at Ratchet, who was looking between the two mechs with a confused expression. “All right, then... This is Prowl,” he finally said.

The name meant nothing to Jazz, but his spark thrummed in his chest anxiously. The impressions he’d gotten made no sense, and the last one... Jazz knew he was Spec Ops. 

He also knew what it looked like when you used pain to “negotiate” information out of a mech. 

Jazz tensed as a sudden blaze of horror shot through him, and he felt his Spec Ops protocols spinning up. Was he being sold a story about what really happened? Had he actually been captured by the Decepticons? They both wore the Autobot brand, but...

Now that his sensors were fully online, he cautiously felt out the fields of the other two mechs. Prowl’s was kept too close for Jazz to sense from this distance, but Ratchet’s exuded nothing but genuine concern and care. Jazz relaxed slightly and reset his Spec Ops protocols to standby. All right, probably not Decepticons. But then, what...?

Prowl stared at Jazz with those icy blue optics, his expression unreadable and his door wings brought back up to a neutral angle. Forcing a smile onto his lips, Jazz pulled out all the charm he could muster. “Heya, Prowl. Sorry I don’t get up, but doc here says I’m still on the disabled list.”

Ratchet’s optics continued to flick between Jazz and Prowl. “Do you remember him?” he asked.

Jazz made a show of pursing his lips as he considered Prowl. “Nope, can’t say that I do,” he said. He supressed a shiver as he got another flash of Prowl’s helm twisting, baring his neck cables as his frame shuddered. “Do I get a hint?”

Prowl raised his door wings high and stood up even straighter than he was before. He spared a glance at Ratchet before settling his optics on Jazz again. “It is good to see you again, Jazz,” he said. Jazz’s spark flipped again at the sound of the Praxian’s voice. “I... must return to work. You will inform me when there is progress?” he asked Ratchet. Without waiting for an answer he spun on his pede and swiftly walked out the door.

Ratchet patted Jazz on the shoulder. “We’ll get it all sorted out, Jazz,” he said. “I’m gonna put you back into medical stasis for now.”

***

“I am sorry, but I am not taking visitors at the moment,” Prowl said frostily.

“Shut it, you stubborn aft.” Prowl’s optics widened, then narrowed as he glared at Ratchet. “I told you that he might not remember you.” Ratchet marched up to Prowl’s desk, placed his hands on the edge and leaned over towards Prowl menacingly. “Yet as soon as we got a hint that he really might not remember anything, you bolted out of there like a sparkstealer was after you. You’ve never run away from anything, Prowl,” he added, his tone softening. “What’s wrong?”

Prowl stood up and mimicked Ratchet’s pose, leaning on the desk towards the medic. “He does not just ‘not remember me,’ he actually cowered away from me the first time he saw me.” He did not try to suppress the aggressive swings of his door wings, made in time with his words. 

Surprised, Ratchet straightened up, his brow furrowing. “He did? I didn’t notice that.”

“Yes.” Pushing away from the desk, Prowl stalked over to the window and looked out for a moment before turning back to the medic. “Did you not feel his field? As soon as I was in range I almost choked on the fear and shock pouring off of him.”

Ratchet shook his helm. “No. I try to block out others’ fields when I’m with a patient, as much as I can. When you get slapped in the face by the field of a dying mech enough times, you learn to keep your sensors to yourself.” He his hand out, palm up. “I’m sorry Prowl, I missed his reaction to you or I would have said something.”

“That mnemosurgeon – “

Ratchet interrupted Prowl immediately. “No. I told you, all Callosum did was some cleanup. Look, he partially remembered me, and the same might have happened with you... It just depends on what he remembers.”

“What could possibly have caused that reaction?” Prowl asked with a growl.

Ratchet inclined his helm, the barest twitch of a smile on his lips. “You’ve never had a fight? You’ve never gotten up in each other’s faces? You’ve never screamed insults at each other?”

Prowl froze. The SIC and TIC had some epic rows in their time together under Optimus Prime’s command. The memory of several such arguments immediately sprang to Prowl’s mind, and he slumped back down into his chair. “Oh, no.” His tactical computer helpfully began cataloguing all of the insults and threats that the two had thrown at each other over the thousands of vorns they had known each other. “What if that is all he remembers of me?” 

“When he’s ready, we’ll talk to him and sort it out,” Ratchet said gently. “Maybe more will come back to him. It’s still early, Prowl. Don’t give up yet.”

***

After several cycles, Jazz was finally allowed to sit up; two deca-cycles later he was allowed to stand. He wobbled on his pedes dangerously while Ratchet and Ambulon, another medic at the centre, steadied him. “Give your gyros a klik to settle,” said Ambulon. 

“It feels like the room is swayin’,” Jazz complained. 

“More rest and more practice should fix that,” Ratchet said. “Your frame is probably weighted a bit differently than your processor remembers.”

Clinging to Ambulon’s arm, Jazz tottered over to the counter across the room. He gripped the edge and then turned, leaning on it. “I feel like some ancient relic,” he muttered, shifting from pede to pede.

“Give it another klik or two,” Ratchet said, hovering nearby with a scanner. “Your processor is working out the changes in your frame.” He waited until the instrument beeped, and then said, “Ok, walk back to the slab.”

This time, the room did not rock as precipitously as it had before. Jazz still needed the steadying arm of Ambulon, but he did not have to clutch it as tightly. 

“There, that’s the way,” Ambulon said, his field full of encouragement. “You’ll be up and dancing in no time.”

“Not until his stamina increases,” Ratchet said with a grunt, waving the scanner. “That’s it for the day, Jazz. Time to get back on the slab and rest.”

“Already?” Jazz griped. But when he tried to get onto the slab himself, he realized he didn’t have the strength or energy to lift himself the few centimeters needed. “Err... Maybe some rest would be a good idea,” he added, letting Ratchet and Ambulon help him onto the slab.

“Your spark is still recovering, so you’ll find yourself getting tired very easily for a while,” Ratchet said after getting Jazz settled again. “Your recovery will go faster if you don’t tire yourself out. Now, rest.”

“Yes, doc,” Jazz said, looking back up at the ceiling before offlining his optics. 

With so much nothing to do, Jazz fell back on reviewing the impressions he’d gotten of Prowl. The Praxian had dominated his resting thoughts ever since seeing him the first and last time an orbital cycle ago. Ratchet had mentioned Prowl a few times; it almost seemed like he was hinting that Jazz should ask to meet the Praxian again. But Ratchet was reluctant to offer any information to Jazz directly – something about overwriting files when his therapy was still going on, or some slag like that.

But each time Jazz thought of the black and white mech, the same image appeared in his mind: the mech’s head thrown back, mouth wide open, denta bared, neck cables stretched and bared, optics sightlessly whited out. Without even getting creative, Jazz could think of five or six ways a Spec Ops agent could make a mech scream like that. 

So for now, he ignored Ratchet’s hinting.

He did have other mechs come visit, though – mechs that he did remember, although one of them had a different name. “It’s Orion Pax, now,” the red and blue mech had said. 

“You aren’t Prime anymore?” Jazz asked sadly. He looked from Optimus (err, Orion) and back to Ratchet. “What’s happened?”

“Don’t worry, Jazz, we’ll get you caught up soon,” the medic promised.


	6. Revelations

It had been over forty cycles since he’d been brought online, and Jazz was starting to feel the strain of being cooped up. Finally, when Ratchet was running yet another of his interminable diagnostics, Jazz decided he’d had enough.

“C’mon, doc, let me outta here,” Jazz whined. “I’m goin’ stir crazy with just these four walls to stare at.”

Ratchet frowned at Jazz before nodding. “All right. And I think it’s time we talked about what’s happened. Callosum’s given me the green light for that, anyway.”

Finally! Jazz waited impatiently while Ratchet collected a data pad and portable monitor to take with him, and they walked out into the hallway.

Jazz was disturbed by how quickly he could feel himself tiring, but he set that aside to focus on how good it felt to just get up and move. They rode a lift up to the top floor, where they exited into a lounge. Large windows overlooked a huge metropolis, teeming with ships and flying alt modes. Making a beeline for the window, Jazz looked down and saw highways and streets filled with ground alt modes. 

“Wow!” Jazz exclaimed. “Where are we?”

“Cybertron. Central Iacon.”

Jazz stared at Ratchet. “What? That’s impossible. Iacon was in ruins when...”

“When you saw it last,” Ratchet said. “It’s been rebuilt.”

The racer sank into a couch. “Ok. I think I’m startin’ to see. How long was I out?”

Ratchet consulted his data pad. “One-thousand, two-hundred and twenty-nine vorns.”

Jazz let out a low whistle before laughing. “When you said I’d been in an accident, I figured it’d just been a shuttle accident or something. Not...” He shook his helm. “All right, so Optimus isn’t – err, Orion Pax...?”

“Callosum said it would be fine to give you any information about what’s happened since your accident, but please let me know if you feel yourself glitching out or any other strange symptoms.” Ratchet waited until Jazz nodded. He sat down across from him. “The war is over, Jazz. The Autobots won. Megatron and the Decepticons were defeated over four hundred vorns ago.”

“We won. We won?” Jazz looked out over the city again. It sounded so surreal. The war was finally over. “Wow. And Opti – Orion?”

“He decided he... needed a break from politics,” Ratchet said wryly.

Nodding, Jazz said, “All right. And who’s Prime now?”

“There isn’t one. Lord Starscream is now the leader of – “

“WHAT??” Jazz exclaimed. Was this what a processor glitch felt like? “I thought you said we won!”

Ratchet held up his hand. “We did, but Starscream won the popular vote by a landslide. It caused some... discord, but they managed to get things settled down eventually.”

“Starscream. Star. Scream. With the voice. And the crazy. **That** Starscream?” 

“Trust me, it was not an ideal turn of affairs. Prowl did his best to stop it, but... Well, he couldn’t, and he...” Ratchet exvented. “I suppose things could be worse. After all, they are continuing to rebuild Cybertron, and repair the damage our war did to other planets. Prowl’s been behind the scenes for a great deal of the rebuilding effort.” Ratchet indicated the towers sweeping skyward out the window.

“Prowl.” The Praxian again. Jazz blew air slowly from his vents and narrowed his optics. He had mulled over the images that had come to him again and again, trying to pull more information from them... But failing. He wasn’t going to figure out this on his own. “Prowl,” he said again, keeping his vocalizer steady and his tone as neutral as he could. “So, what’s his story?”

“You tell me. You said you don’t remember him, but Prowl said you cringed away from him when you first saw him,” Ratchet said. “I don’t think you normally do that to mechs you’ve first met.”

Frag. Jazz looked away, his optics drawn to the window again. “Well, I... it was just... they’re just flashes, right? Little blinks of scenes. They aren’t connected, and I can’t make sense of them.” He looked back to the medic. “I got the same thing with you, but they were easier to understand. You’re a medic. Most of the things I remembered, or the impressions I got, were things that made sense considering I knew ya were a medic. But Prowl...” He held his hands up. “I gotta be honest with ya, doc. What I saw... None of it made sense.”

Ratchet nodded. “During the war, you were third in command to Optimus Prime, and head of Spec Ops.”

“Yeah, that I know.”

“Prowl was second in command, and was our Chief Tactical Officer. The two of you worked closely together.” Ratchet hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. His field was rich with anticipation, and Jazz knew Ratchet was waiting to see if he could piece something together on his own. “Very closely.”

Jazz thought back to the memories he’d seen about the Praxian. The battle made sense, and if they were both commanding officers then the image of Prowl working at a desk made sense as well. But the most uncomfortable image didn’t seem to fit, still. He asked, “Prowl and me... Did we get along?”

Ratchet’s laugh startled Jazz. He looked at the medic, who had an actual, real smile on his lips. “Jazz. Yes. You did.” The medic waited another beat to see if anything else came to Jazz, before adding, “Before you... disappeared, you were lovers.”

_...arching his helm back, his optics blazing to white out. He trembled, hands scrabbling at the surface below him, mouth open in a soundless scream. His door wings flattened against the berth as his frame shuddered..._

Jazz’s optics widened. 

_...as his frame shuddered in the ecstasy of a processor-blowing overload._

“Oh, slag,” Jazz said, holding his helm in his hands, covering his face. 

“Jazz?” Ratchet asked, his voice suddenly heavy with concern. “Are you ok?”

“I got it all wrong.” Jazz barked out a laugh, half horrified and half amused. “I thought... I thought he was...” He looked at Ratchet helplessly. “I thought he was someone I’d – ya, know – tortured.” He let his face fall back into his hands again. “I didn’t think I was fraggin’ him!”

Ratchet laughed again. “I think I might be able to understand the confusion, considering what I’ve heard you’re capable of in the berth.” 

Jazz’s processor almost seized up at that. “Err... Really? Never mind, I don’t need details,” he said in a daze. But he replayed the memory fragment again, with the filter of “good” screaming rather than “bad” screaming, and felt a small flush of satisfaction that he was able to cause that reaction. “But, maybe I oughtta try to explain this to Prowl?” Muttering, he added, “Slag, how awkward is that gonna be...” 

“All right,” Ratchet said, patting Jazz’s knee. “I’ll comm Prowl and ask him to come down again.”

***

Prowl got off the lift and entered the lounge. Ratchet said that Jazz had started spending time there when he wasn’t undergoing repairs or recharging, just watching the shuttles come and go from the space port.

Sunlight gleamed off the towers, and glints of lights tracked where mechs flitted about in their aerial altmodes. Jazz was sitting on a couch close to the window, but turned and stood as soon as he heard Prowl enter the room.

“Prowl?” he asked, stepping forward uncertainly.

“Yes,” replied Prowl, keeping his door wings still and his field close. “Ratchet said that you asked to see me again.”

“Yeah,” said Jazz “I – I think we got off on the wrong pede. Can we try again?” he asked.

“Of course.” Prowl took the seat that Jazz gestured to, and the Polyhexian took the seat across from him. Jazz had been repainted, finally, in very much the same colours that Prowl remembered, even down to the blue racing stripes. However, his visor was still missing, so Jazz was watching him with pale blue optics. “My compliments on your colours. The paint job is very well done.”

Jazz looked down at himself and chuckled. “Thanks. They asked me what I wanted, and I told them to just give me whatever I had before.” His expression soured momentarily. “I didn’t remember, but do like this look.”

An awkward moment of silence passed before they both spoke at once. Jazz laughed. “Go on, you first.”

Prowl placed his hands on his knees to steady himself. “I know you do not remember me. Not like I had hoped,” Prowl began, reciting the words he had practiced. “But I do hope that we can get to know each other again, and... see where it goes.”

Jazz nodded. “Yeah, I think I’d like that.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And I’m sorry that I got the wrong impression about ya. I guess I jumped to conclusions about... well, about how we got along.”

“Jumping to conclusions was sort of your specialty as Spec Ops,” Prowl said dryly, earning a laugh from Jazz. Prowl relaxed slightly. He let his field extend out slightly, trying to infuse it with as much reassurance as he could. He sensed Jazz’s in return, and was relieved when he detected none of the fear he had the first time they had met. “Do you feel comfortable telling me what memory – or what partial memory – caused you such distress?”

“Ratchet didn’t tell ya?” Prowl shook his helm, and Jazz looked up at the ceiling. “Well, let’s just say that, without context, it’s really hard to tell the difference between the face of a mech that’s being subjected to enhanced interrogation methods, and the face of a mech that’s having one of the best overloads of his life.”

Prowl cycled his optics and focused on Jazz again, who was still looking at the ceiling, the floor, the window, and anywhere that was not at Prowl. “You did tell me, once,” Prowl said finally, drawing Jazz’s optics back to him, “that I am quite expressive in the berth. I also know first-hand that you are extremely good to your partners. So... I might be able to see the confusion.”

Jazz laughed. “Ah, mech, stop flatterin’ me!” 

Prowl smiled slightly before growing serious again. “I missed you, Jazz. I missed you with all my spark.” He stilled his wings and pulled a full vent cycle before continuing. “When you reacted as if you were afraid of me, or that I had hurt you... It was almost like losing you all over again.” 

Jazz reached out to take Prowl’s hand in his. Prowl’s door wings quivered at having Jazz so close to him, and his spark ached at the proximity. “Give me some time, Prowl,” Jazz said. “I know that this must be hard as slag on you. I don’t know that I coulda done it. But gimme some time, and let’s see if it comes back to me. And if it doesn’t,” he shrugged. “Maybe I can fall for you all over again.” 

***

Jazz took the blue visor in his hands greedily, and brought it up to cover his optics. The visor slid into place with an audible click. His processor smoothly adjusted and began displaying updated information on his HUD. “Ah, now I feel like a complete mech again.”

“Your old visor was a pretty sophisticated piece of tech,” said Ratchet, folding his arms across his chest. “This one doesn’t quite have all the bells and whistles your old one did, but at least it’s compatible with your Spec Ops protocols.”

“Don’t sell yerself short, Ratchet, this is great.” Jazz looked around the room, focusing on various items to see what information the visor would give him. “And I don’t think I’ll be missing those extra features unless I’m in a firefight or trying sneak my way in someplace.”

“Hopefully that’s not needed anytime soon,” Ratchet agreed. He began putting away his tools. “Oh, and you have a couple more visitors coming by today. They’ll meet you up in the lounge in a groon.”

The slim mnemosurgeon that had been monitoring Jazz’s progress said that Jazz shouldn’t be given “new” information until he’d had a chance to reach for it himself... Something about giving the neural connections a chance to find their own way before overwriting it. Jazz hadn’t understood everything Callosum said, but the end result was that he had no idea who the mechs coming were going to be, other than that they had known him before. 

Jazz was sitting in his favourite spot near the window when he heard the lift. He stood, leaning slightly on the arm of the chair for support, and watched a blue and red Praxian enter the lounge with a blue Iaconian. He reeled as memories flashed before his optics.

“Jazz!” called the Praxian, jumping forward to steady Jazz. “They said you might not remember us, but – slag, is it ever good to see you.”

“Smokey?” Jazz asked uncertainly. “We worked together, right? And went drinking together?”

The Praxian laughed. “It’s Smokescreen, but yeah, working and drinking about covers it.” Smokescreen grasped Jazz’s forearm firmly. “It’s been a long time.”

Jazz turned to the other mech and frowned. “...and... Raj?” He cycled his optics, trying to clear the image of the blue mech trussed hands to pedes with a gag in his mouth. “Um. Did I... ever, uh, rescue you? Because I remember you... only, you’re all tied up.”

The smile dropped off the faceplates of the blue mech. “I am Mirage, and I have never been captured,” he said stiffly. 

Laughter burst from Smokescreen. “You were never captured by the ‘Cons, Mirage, but I know for a fact that Jazz ‘captured’ you on several occasions while we were roommates.” He grinned at Jazz. “You two never did work out a good system to warn me not to come in. Some of those images are forever burned into my optics.”

Mirage looked like he wanted to drop through the floor, and Jazz’s engine coughed. “I’ve learned more about myself in the past few cycles than any mech oughta ever learn,” Jazz said.

“That was ages and ages ago,” Mirage said, still looking uncomfortable. “Vorns before you and Prowl got together...” He paused and glanced at Smokescreen.

“You’ve – I mean, Prowl has...” Smokescreen started.

“We’ve met,” Jazz said. “I – I know we were together. I just remember bits and pieces, but...” He shrugged. “We’re gonna see where it goes.”

“I hope it works out. And if it doesn’t, I hope you can still be friends,” Smokescreen said. He reached over and put his hand on Jazz’s. “You were really good for him. He sort of... fell apart after you –“ He stopped abruptly.

“It’s ok, you can talk about it,” Jazz said. “In fact,” he said, leaning forward, “what did happen? To me? I read the declassified report that Ratchet gave me, but it was so dry... How did it happen?”

“That’s a good question,” Smokescreen said with a frown.

Smokescreen, who had taken Jazz’s position in Spec Ops after his disappearance, filled in some of the holes: the mission had been to infiltrate the research facility to determine what the Decepticons’ big project was. He detailed the explosion, the Decepticons destroying what was left of their facility, and Prowl’s conclusion that there was no point in sending a rescue team... Not even for Jazz. Finally, he described Prowl’s slow downward spiral after making that decision and finding himself alone.

“I think it was that last bit that really did him in,” Smokescreen said sadly. “He blamed himself for approving the mission. He blamed himself for sending you. He blamed himself for not being able to rationalize sending a team to look for your frames. And he blamed himself for not being able to deal with his grief on his own.”

A silence settled over the group. Jazz tried to imagine the serious mech with the precise, clipped speech patterns he’d met breaking down, and couldn’t. He shook his helm. “And it bothers me that I don’t remember the first thing about the others. My team?” he said uncertainly. “Bumblebee and Trailblazer?”

“Trailbreaker,” Mirage corrected. 

“Yeah,” Jazz said, dropping his helm. “If I remember anything, I feel like it should be those mechs, ya know? The ones under my command.” He slid a hand down the front of his helm. “I wish... There shoulda been...” He rolled his shoulders and looked up. “But enough about me and the past. Tell me about yourselves. What are ya doin’ now that the war’s over?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of Act One. Act Two starts with the next chapter, with some more plot entanglements. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the feedback so far! :)


	7. Shards of the Past

“All right, when your energy level drops to 65% it’s time to turn around and come back. I want you back here before you fall below 35%,” Ratchet said, giving Jazz one last scan. “Your endurance isn’t going to be at – well, it isn’t going to be at anything like whatever you remember it should be, so keep a close eye on it.”

The racer was vibrating with excitement. After almost half a vorn cooped up in the medical centre, he was finally allowed to go out on a drive... With an escort in the form of Prowl, that is. The Praxian watched Jazz bounce on his pedes, his door wings canted backwards in amused silence.

Jazz turned away from Ratchet and lowered his helm. “C’mon, take the inhibitor claw off already! I need to feel my tires on the pavement.”

There was a click and an odd coolness on Jazz’s upper back. Reflexively he let his transformer cog activate, switching into his alt mode. He revved his engine excitedly. ::Ooooh yeah, that’s the stuff!:: he said on an open comm.

Prowl transformed into his black and white Enforcer-style alt-mode. ::We will return before sundown.::

“I’m more concerned about his energy levels than what time it is,” Ratchet said. “But take it easy, in any event, and call me immediately if there are any problems.”

::Affirmative, Ratchet. Jazz, follow me.:: Prowl began driving slowly away from the medical centre, and Jazz followed him with an excited peal out.

Prowl led Jazz through the warren of streets, under overpasses and over bridges between soaring towers. ::Where are we goin’, anyway? Smokey invited me to come out to the race track he owns if I wanted to give my engine a workout.::

::Ratchet would have my helm if I took you to a race track on your first outing.::

::Yeah, yer probably right.::

::We shall be at our destination in a short while. It is just outside the city.:: 

Jazz noticed that they were leaving the towers behind. The highway dipped down from a bridge to surface level before cresting a low hill, heading out of the city. The road climbed higher into the hills overlooking Iacon City, twisting through switchbacks with amazing vistas. At first, Jazz was frustrated at Prowl’s sedate pace, but came to appreciate it when he realized how steep the hills were, and how quickly his energy was dropping. Prowl was probably right that a trip to a race track would not have been a good idea today.

Finally, Prowl pulled off at an outcropping of rocks and transformed, Jazz following his lead. With a stretch, Jazz settled onto a convenient rock next to Prowl.

“How is your energy level?” Prowl asked, muted concern in his field.

“I’m at 71%, so plenty of leeway, especially since the way back will be mostly downhill,” Jazz said. Prowl nodded and relaxed. “This view is amazing. Totally worth the drive!”

“I come up here frequently to think. To plan. To remember,” Prowl said. 

“Did we ever come up here together?” Jazz asked.

Prowl shook his helm. “The war left us very little time for frivolous pursuits,” he said. “Plus, we would be too exposed to Decepticon fire, sitting up here.”

Jazz hummed. “I guess that makes sense.” He kicked his pedes at the surface of the rock he was sitting on. “So... How did we meet? How... how did we get together? What did we like to do?” When Prowl glanced over at him, he ducked his helm. “Sorry. It’s just... I just know there’s a huge blank spot over our lives, and I hate that I can’t even remember the basics.”

“It is all right.” A pause, then Prowl held out his arm, turned over to expose the port on his inner wrist. “I can show you, if you would like.”

Of the three interface ports on a mech’s body, the wrist ports were the least personal, used mostly for simple information and data transfers, but emotions and other reactions were suppressed. Then there were the medical ports at the neck, which allowed a more open connection that included emotions, pain and sensory data. Finally, the most intimate were the hip ports, with their broad bandwidth and almost full access to a mech’s processor. 

Jazz did not hesitate before offering his own arm port to the Praxian. They exchanged cords, and Jazz observed his processor handle the handshakes and establish the connection. 

He felt Prowl trailing along his firewalls. [[Your firewalls are much like I remember.]]

[[Ratchet said most of that’s built in; my Spec Ops code rebuilt them automatically as soon as I was brought online.]]

Jazz watched Prowl’s door wings twitch in understanding. 

[[Are you ready for the first memory?]]

[[Yup. Hit me.]]

Jazz was standing with his arms crossed, looking unimpressed. His paint gleamed in an alien sun. Jazz realized that he was seeing himself through Prowl’s eyes when he saw the Praxian’s white hands pointing an accusatory digit at Jazz. Past-Jazz held up a hand in a frustrated gesture, obviously not liking what Prowl had said. Past-Jazz stalked away a few steps before turning and pointing back at Prowl, snapping an icy retort.

[[We did not get along when we first met. I disliked you: you were brash, loud, impulsive and insubordinate. You seemed to encourage chaos wherever you went. I was displeased that Optimus Prime had selected you for third in command over the other names that I had suggested.]]

[[I look like a bit of an aft here, to be honest.]]

Prowl allowed his field to extend slightly, touching Jazz’s with reassurance. [[Remember, this is how I recall that encounter. It may be slightly coloured with my own biases.]]

Jazz snorted. [[Fair enough.]]

Opening the next packet, Jazz saw himself running towards Prowl. No, not right at Prowl… He was running past Prowl. With the grace of a felinoid, he threw himself into the air, transforming and landing on his tires with a slight skid before roaring off. Prowl transformed as well, and the two raced down a paved road under the same alien sun he’d seen before. 

[[Over time, I came to appreciate your talents. You had immense dexterity and speed, and your frame was deceivingly strong for its size. You could make leaps in intuition that evaded me, and you were second to none at maintaining morale of our troops.]]

Here Prowl passed Jazz another small file, this one of Jazz seated at a table with several other mechs, laughing over something that Jazz had just said. [[This was something that I simply could not do, and it was badly needed. You were a life saver, in more ways than one.]] 

Jazz was still wondering over the memory of him transforming and racing off. The memory had made him look... well, amazing. He wondered how much of that memory was real and how much was Prowl embellishing it, when he opened the next packet.

Past-Jazz was sitting with Prowl, laughing over a cube of energon. The memory shifted, and they were seated in a secluded booth at a bar or club. From across the table, he listened intently to Prowl, his visor glowing a deep cobalt blue and a cube of energon forgotten near his elbow. He reached out and placed his hand over Prowl’s, then curled his digits to grasp Prowl’s hand and give it a gentle squeeze.

[[My appreciation became admiration, and then more. After two-hundred and thirty-two vorns, I finally worked up the courage to tell you how I felt. I was... pleased to discover that you were receptive to my advances.]]

[[You approached me!]] Jazz laughed. [[And after only two-hundred thirty-two vorns! You move fast!]]

Prowl was staring at Jazz, his door wings waving slightly. [[You are kidding...?]]

Jazz could not suppress another laugh. [[Yes, mech, I’m kidding.]] Understanding and amusement seeped into Prowl’s field.

Another memory. He was spinning, staring at past-Jazz and the utterly delighted smile plastered across his faceplates. Their hands were interlocked, and they moved as one through a series of complicated steps...

[[Prowl! You dance?]]

Prowl glanced away, his field withdrawing bashfully. [[No. Not until you taught me. This was our first lesson.]]

Jazz was about to comment on his skill as a teacher, when he felt a sudden vertigo. The memory doubled, and he realized he saw the scene from two different viewpoints: the one Prowl had shared with him, and –

“Prowl,” Jazz murmured, too startled to transmit over the hardline. “Prowl, I remember this. I remember teaching you.” 

He saw Prowl, his mouth twisted in an uncertain grimace, following his lead as closely as he could. Prowl stumbled, and Jazz caught him before he could fall. A laugh from the Praxian, and they swung back into the dance as one.

Quickly, Jazz packaged the memory clip and sent it over their connection to Prowl. Delight spiked into Prowl’s field. [[Yes, this was the first lesson. I am afraid I was not a very capable student.]]

[[It looks good enough to me. And compare those memories – you’re a lot harder on yourself than I am. You were doin’ just fine for your first dance.]] He turned his hand over, and wrapped his digits around Prowl’s. He let his wonder and thanks flow through his field. [[Thank you for helping me remember that, Prowl.]]

***

As he suspected, the way back to the medical centre was much easier than the drive out. It still felt amazing to have the pavement under his wheels again, and Prowl allowed a faster pace going downhill.

::What is your energy level?:: Prowl commed him as they approached the center of the city.

::I’m at 46%.::

::Would you like to see the park district before returning to the medical centre? It is not far.::

::Lead on, mech!::

The park district turned out to be a series of squares, interspersed with restaurants, bars and other entertainment venues. They both transformed back into root mode so that they could enjoy the pedestrian paths that wound through hedges and statues.

“This is amazing! Was this all here before the war?”

Prowl looked around with an air of satisfaction. “No. This was set apart to give mechs someplace to relax and remember all that we lost – and gained – in the war.” He gestured at a bronze sculpture of a standing mech leaning on a pulse rifle, standing guard over the frame of another mech that was face down, obviously offlined. “All the major battles have been commemorated in some way. This memorial commemorates the MTOs that were created and lost in the Vorsk Offensive.”

They strolled through the square and into the next, Prowl pointing out various statues and monuments as they went. The third square they entered was larger than the previous two, and was dominated by a huge faceted sphere. Delicate spikes extended from the sphere in a random pattern all around, with a smaller sphere on the end of each spike.

“This is a tribute to the return of the colonies to Cybertron after the war ended,” Prowl explained. He paused and glanced at Jazz. “Are you all right?”

Jazz was staring up at the sphere, his mouth a thin line. A sense of dread tickled the back of his brain, and he took a step backwards. “Uh... Yeah, Prowl, I’m fine. It’s just... “ Jazz’s vocalizer crackled with static. “It’s just big, ya know?”

With narrowed optics, Prowl watched Jazz for another moment before placing his hand on Jazz’s arm. Jazz jumped. “Let us return to the medical centre,” Prowl said, gesturing away from the sphere. “It is just a few blocks that way.”

Jazz was all too happy to follow Prowl out of the square. He cast one more look over his shoulder at the sphere before looking away again with a shudder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The memorial commemorating the MTOs is a tribute to [this WWI memorial](http://static.panoramio.com/photos/large/127839539.jpg).
> 
> The memorial that causes Jazz his discomfort is a product of my imagination. :)


	8. Apprehension

_Light. Sudden noise. Fear._

_Dust choking his vents._

_Burning pain. Crushing weight. A mech, screaming in pain and terror._

_Blackness._

“Jazz? Jazz, what’s wrong?”

Ratchet peered into his visor, his faceplates a picture of concern. Jazz realized his hands were crushing the edge of the examination table he was laying on, and he released them with a jerk. “Ratchet,” he croaked. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just... I dunno. Somethin’ came over me, I guess.”

“It was something all right,” Ratchet said, frowning at the monitor next to him. “All of your readings just spiked as if your spark was flaring out.” He adjusted the scanner in his hand. 

“I saw... I felt like I was dyin’,” Jazz admitted. 

Ratchet grunted and made a few more notes on his data pad. “I’m going to outfit you with a spark monitor, just in case. It’ll send us an alert here if your readings spike again.” He patted Jazz on the shoulder. “After all this, I’m not about to let you keel over from something we could treat.”

Jazz nodded. “Ai’ght, doc. You’re the expert.” 

***

“Prime!”

“It’s Pax, Jazz. Or just Orion,” Orion Pax reminded Jazz as he entered the lounge. He grasped Jazz’s forearm in greeting.

“Right, right,” Jazz said, ducking his helm and taking a seat next to Orion. “It’s just strange, since you – since Prime is one of the mechs I do remember, but now it’s all changed,” he added, chagrined.

“How are you doing, old friend?” Orion asked in his warm baritone.

“Good! Ratchet finally let me go for a drive. Prowl took me up to some hills overlooking the city.”

“I think I know the place,” Orion said. “On a clear day you can see almost all the way to the Acid Wastes.”

“It was a bit hazy when we went up so we didn’t see them, but I’ll keep that in mind,” Jazz said. “If I keep up this progress, they’re gonna release me soon. Prowl said he’d look into gettin’ me someplace to stay – Ratchet wants me close to the centre here, so I’ll still be in the area.”

A smile lit up Orion’s optics. “That is very good to hear. I remember you as a mech who does not like being kept from going where he wants, when he wants.”

“Yeah.” Jazz exvented. “I need to figure out how I’m gonna support myself. Prowl said he can help, but I don’t want to be a charity case.”

“I don’t think Prowl would ever consider you a ‘charity case,’ Jazz, but I understand your feelings,” Orion said. 

“Anyway, Mirage stopped by a few deca-cycles ago... Did you know he has a club? Visages?” Orion nodded, and Jazz laughed, shaking his helm. “I never woulda figured a noble like Mirage for wanting to own a bar. Anyway, he offered me a chance to play. Blaster’s running the entertainment schedule for him. It’ll just be for tips at first, but he said he was sure Blaster could offer me a steady slot.” 

“You played for a living before the war, did you not?” Orion asked.

“I... think so,” Jazz said. “But even if I did, I don’t think that was very good money. It’ll be better than nothing, I suppose. They even have a club keyboard I can use until I can afford one of my own. But I know I’m gonna need some practice before I do anything, though.”

“I look forward to hearing you play again. Your performances never failed to delight.”

“C’mon, Prime – err, Pax. You sure know how give a mech a big helm,” Jazz said with a grin.

***

_A burst of light. A crack of thunder so loud his audials are ringing._

_Fear. Anger. Fatigue._

_Fans running at their highest speed to try to clear the dust from his vents, and it isn’t enough._

_A mech, screaming in pain and anger and terror. He realizes it is him, his vocalizer shredding at the power of his shriek._

“It’s all right, Jazz, you’re safe. You’re safe. That’s right, vent in... vent out... Shh...”

Jazz focused on the soothing voice before onlining his visor. Ambulon was kneeling next to him, and Jazz realized he was lying on the floor of his suite at the medical centre. “What...”

“Your spark monitor went off and I came to check on you,” Ambulon said, running his hand down Jazz’s arm soothingly. “I found you lying here, screaming. Did you fall off of the berth?”

“I’m... not sure,” Jazz admitted. He looked up at the berth next to him. “Seems pretty likely, though.”

Assured that Jazz was relaxing, Ambulon checked the readings in the scanner he was holding. “Now that we have a full set of readings from one of these attacks, it looks like... Well, I’d want to discuss it with Ratchet, but these look like panic attacks.” The medic lowered the scanner. “When is your next appointment with Callosum?”

“Not for another deca-cycle,” Jazz said glumly, climbing to his pedes. He looked at Ambulon. “This means I’m gonna have to stay here for longer, right?” He made a fist and slammed it down onto the berth. “I was supposed to get discharged in two cycles, too.”

Ambulon shrugged non-committedly. “That’s not my call, but I don’t see why your discharge would be delayed. If it is a panic attack, there’s nothing that we can really do for it here except help you ride it out. And you might be more relaxed and less prone to them if you’re in a more comfortable environment.”

Settling back on the berth, Jazz said, “Well, I hope so. Because it feels like I’m going crazy.”

“You’ve been through a lot, Jazz,” Ambulon said gently. “Only a drone would have come through all of that without some scars, visible or not.”

***

True to his promise, Prowl had arranged for a flat in a residential tower close to the medical centre. On the day Jazz was discharged, Prowl sent him a brief message, tagged with an apologetic glyph.

_Jazz-_

_I am afraid an issue has arisen at work that requires my immediate attention. The superintendent will meet you at the tower office with the passkey to your residence; he will have everything on file. I should be free to come by later this afternoon if that is agreeable to you._

_-Prowl_

The flat was simply furnished, and consisted of a living area, a small galley kitchen, and a separate berthroom with a wash rack. Jazz noted that there was not even an entertainment centre, and he knew what one of the first items he would purchase would be... Once he got a job, that is.

The view was as simple as the furnishing: the large window in the living area looked out to another tower, disturbingly close to his. He slid the curtain shut and began poking around the flat to familiarize himself with it.

He had finally run out of places to investigate in the flat, and flumphed down on the couch, looking around. He tried to recall other places he had lived, but the memories were hard for him to grasp onto. A few scattered images cross his mind, tantalizingly, but he was not able to pull them in to be examined.

He offlined his optics, trying to catalogue the flashes. An apartment, smaller than this, that was clean but still felt grimy. A bunk, one of a dozen in a communal dorm. Another bunk, one of two in smallish room, where his was on the left. No, right. Left? Or were those two different places? A larger room that looked like it was on a base: a desk, a couch, a berth. He got the feeling that room wasn’t his...

The door chimed, startling him to his pedes. He answered the door to find Prowl, who was carrying a long, thin case. “Hey! I thought you wouldn’t be by until later!” Jazz exclaimed, motioning for Prowl to enter.

“It is late afternoon, as my message stipulated,” Prowl said. 

“What?” Startled, Jazz checked his chronometer. “Oh, wow, I lost track of time.” He shrugged. “Trying to remember... anything. And failing.”

With an empathetic tilt of his wings, Prowl set the case down and glanced around the flat. “I trust that the accommodations meet with your approval?”

“Oh yeah, they’re great! They’re actually a lot bigger than I was expecting,” Jazz said enthusiastically, waving around the main room. He touched Prowl’s forearm and added, “I really appreciate ya helpin’ get me settled.”

Prowl’s slight smile seeped into his field as pleasure. “Of course, Jazz. If there is anything else I can do to assist, please, just ask.”

“The only thing I can think of right now – aside from puttin’ my mark on the place, of course – is getting some energon for the kitchen. Turns out that ‘furnished’ doesn’t include fuel,” he said, answering Prowl’s smile with one of his own.

“Absolutely. There is a fuel dispensary a few blocks away. We can go there now, if you would like.” 

“Sure, that way I’ll have something for the morning.” Jazz’s optics fell to the case Prowl was still holding, and curiosity finally overwhelmed him. “Ok, so what’s in the case? It looks like...”

Prowl leaned the case towards Jazz. “Open it.”

Jazz laid the case on the floor and snapped open the latches. His visor brightened as he pulled out the instrument. “An electro-bass!” he said. He quickly keyed a few notes and thrilled at the quality of the tone. “Ah, that is a seriously rich sound. Prowl, my mech, you shouldn’t have!”

When Prowl said nothing, Jazz finally looked up at the other mech. The Praxian was standing quite still, his optics cast down at the floor. Setting the electro-bass back in the case, Jazz put a hand on Prowl’s shoulder. “Hey... Are you all right?”

Prowl nodded. “Yes. I am just...” He raised his optics to Jazz’s face. “The instrument is yours. It... was yours. Before your accident. You willed it to me, and now I am able to return it.”

Jazz’s engine stalled as he realized what Prowl was saying. He put his other hand on Prowl’s other shoulder. “Prowl... Thank you. For hangin’ onto it for me.” 

Taking a moment to steady himself, Prowl said, “I am afraid it has not been played much in the past twelve hundred vorns. While you did attempt to teach me how to dance, I left the music to you.”

“I’ll just have to get it warmed up and then give ya a little private concert,” Jazz said, giving Prowl’s shoulders a squeeze before letting go. 

***

The dispensary had a good selection of treats and basic fuel, but Jazz restrained himself when making his selections. He felt slightly guilty siphoning off Prowl, and he reaffirmed his conviction to get some kind of income flowing as quickly as he could. 

“Would you like to stop for a treat before returning home? There is a quiet café one street over,” Prowl suggested. Jazz agreed, and they soon found themselves seated in a corner of the café. The waiter mech seemed to know Prowl well, and Jazz let him order a cube for both of them.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the help you’re givin’ me, Prowl,” Jazz said when their energon arrived. 

Prowl waved his hand in an appeasing gesture. “There is no need for thanks, Jazz.” He sipped from his cube. “You were... You **are** an important part of my life.” Jazz noted that Prowl’s field was pulled in tight against him again so that he could not sense anything from it.

Guessing that Prowl was uncomfortable with his effusive gratitude, Jazz sought to change the topic. “So, work! You work in the Ministry of Reconstruction, right?” When Prowl nodded, Jazz plowed on. “So what exactly do you do there?”

“Much of it is administrative work: seeking approval for project plans, attending planning meetings, handling contracts, coordinating the work crews, managing the requisition orders, and creating reports for the Council on how work is progressing.”

“Reports? Requisition orders? Mech, that sounds dull as slag,” Jazz groaned. 

Twisting his door wings in amusement, Prowl said, “I rather enjoy the work. It is calm, and mostly predictable. After the furore of millions of years of war, it is a nice change of pace.”

“I guess it might be.” Jazz’s optics dropped to the blue sigil on Prowl’s body panel that he had noticed before. He gestured at it with his cube. “Is that the Ministry’s sigil? I haven’t seen it anywhere else.”

Jazz tensed as Prowl’s field suddenly flared with sadness before the Praxian managed to pull it back tight against him. “No,” Prowl said softly. For the second time that afternoon, Jazz saw the mech make a visible effort to calm himself. “It was a gift. From you.”

A crawling anxiety stirred in Jazz’s spark that he suddenly knew what kind of gift it was. “Ah – slag, mech, I’m... I’m sorry I don’t remember.” Jazz considered whether he wanted to know whether he was right. After a pause, he slid his wrist closer to Prowl. “Do you want to show me when I gave it to ya?”

Prowl’s door wings suddenly fell completely, and his field flared with distress once more. Without thinking, Jazz grabbed Prowl’s hand and pushed as much comfort into his field as he could. Before he could say something, Prowl shook his helm and brought dim optics up to meet Jazz’s. “You did not get a chance to give it to me. It was a gift that was found in your quarters after the accident, with a note asking if I would be your conjunx endura.” 

Jazz’s processor reeled and he felt his engine falter. He tightened his grip on Prowl’s hand, his other hand resting on his forehead to support his helm. “Slag…” he muttered again, staring down at their linked hands. He ran through the memories that Prowl had shown him, and the small collection of memories that he had recovered on his own. 

It was obvious that he had cared, deeply, for this mech. But while Prowl was definitely easy on the optics, and he was kind and a pleasure to talk to, Jazz simply did not feel… Well, whatever it was that had prompted him to want to propose spending the rest of his time functioning with Prowl. 

He knew his frustration was evident in his field, but he did not bother trying to suppress it. “And you’ve worn it all this time, even though you thought I was dead?” Prowl looked away, but returned the squeeze on Jazz’s hand. “Mech, I don’t know if I’m anything like the Jazz you knew, but... me, **this** Jazz... I would want you to move on, to go on living, and find someone else.”

Swinging his optics back to Jazz’s visor, Prowl said quietly, “I was planning on moving on... After the loss had faded.” He raised his door wings again, almost to their regular resting angle. “Time passed, but the sting of your loss did not. And now...” He motioned with his other hand at Jazz. “You are Jazz. Your mannerisms are the same. Your voice is the same. Your sense of humour is the same. All that is missing...”

“... is just about everything I should remember about us,” Jazz said bitterly.

***

Their walk back to Jazz’s new flat took them through the square with the faceted sphere and spikes, representing Cybertron and its colonies. As soon as they entered the square, Jazz’s visor fixated on the sphere and his pedes froze on the spot.

Prowl walked a few steps further before realizing that Jazz had stopped. He hurried back to where the racer stood, staring fixedly at the monument. “Jazz?”

_Blaster fire._

_Shouting, then screaming._

_Blistering light. Roaring thunder._

_Searing heat. Pain. Fear. Anger._

“Jazz!”

Jazz’s visor onlined to see Prowl holding him. Why was he on the ground? The Praxian’s door wings were spread high to shield Jazz from seeing anything but Prowl’s face. “Look at me, Jazz,” Prowl said firmly, his optics bright. “I have commed the medical centre. They are sending a response team right away.”

“I’m all right,” Jazz said weakly. “It’s... Ambulon said they think it’s just panic attacks.”

Jazz heard a siren followed by a transformation sequence, and Prowl shifted to allow Ratchet’s face into his field of vision. “We’re here, Jazz,” Ratchet said smoothly. “I’m gonna link into your medical ports just to see how you’re doing, ok?”

Nodding, Jazz felt the medic slip his cables into his neck port. While Ratchet performed the diagnosis, Jazz sought out Prowl’s hand. “I am right here,” Prowl said quietly.

With a satisfied nod, Ratchet withdrew his cables. “Everything in your main system looks fine,” he said. “Your next appointment with Callosum is in eight cycles. I am going to send him this data, because it might help him pinpoint what memory is triggering these attacks, and help you deal with it.”

Jazz was suddenly buffeted by a surge of anger and betrayal from Prowl. He looked up at the tactician in surprise to see the black and white mech glaring at Ratchet. “The mnemosurgeon?” Prowl practically snarled.

“Lay off it, Prowl,” Ratchet said. “At this point there’s not a lot of other options, unless you think it’s fine that he collapses in terror every few days because of some rogue memory.”

Glancing down at Jazz, Prowl’s field suddenly wavered, with concern supplanting the rage it had only moments before. “Yes, medic,” he said weakly. 

“Now, let’s get you home, Jazz,” Ratchet said, and helped him to his feet.


	9. Music Therapy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *does the "it's time to earn the rating" dance*

Two cycles after getting the passkey to his new flat, Jazz invited Prowl over for music and fuel. “I’ve practiced a bit on the electro-bass, and want to see if you think I’m any good. I got some energon snacks, and I figured we could make an evening of it,” he had said when they discussed the invitation.

Jazz fussed over the cubes and other snacks he set out on the table. Prowl watched him with door wings set at a decidedly amused tilt before saying, “If you rearrange the snacks again, Jazz, I believe they will be back into the same arrangement they were in when I arrived. Please sit down.”

“I guess you’re right.” He sat across the table from Prowl with a thump. He offered the plate to Prowl before selecting a treat of his own. “And thanks for comin’ over to listen to me play. Blaster said he reserved a performance slot for me in a deca-cycle, and… I don’t wanna embarrass myself, ya know?”

“I promise to give you an honest assessment of your playing,” Prowl replied.

Jazz nodded, still distracted. He drummed his digits on the table before leaning forward again. “Prowl… There’s somethin’ else I wanted to ask you about.”

“I am listening,” Prowl said, his optics and wings showing that his full attention was on the Polyhexian.

“When Ratchet brought up Callosum, you –“ Jazz stopped when he saw Prowl’s optics flash and narrow. “Yeah, see? You’re doin’ it again. Do you not like him or something? He seemed like an all right mech to me.”

Prowl cycled a full vent and gave his door wings a flick. “I must apologize for my reaction. Callosum was highly recommended by Ratchet, and I yield to his expertise. However, I have had…” he paused and looked away from Jazz. “I have had personal experience with mnemosurgeons that has left me with a poor impression of their profession.”

“You needed a mnemosurgeon? Were you –“ Jazz began.

“No!” Prowl snapped before visibly gathering himself again. “No. I did not **need** a mnemosurgeon.” He took another full vent cycle. “After the war, during the unreset and before Starscream took control of the Council, I found myself disagreeing with… the will of the people.” He spoke the words carefully, as though they tasted bad. “As I attempted to steer Cybertron’s destiny towards one that I thought would benefit its citizens better than the one they chose for themselves, I became… unpopular with a variety of people.”

“Ratchet said you objected to Starscream becoming ruler,” Jazz said.

Prowl nodded. “Yes. ‘Objected.’ That is an excellent word to use. I **strongly** objected.” He leaned back in his chair and flicked his wings again. “After all that we had fought for, I was appalled that the citizens would just hand control to that… To Starscream. As a result of my ‘objection,’ I found myself attacked on a variety of fronts. This included shadowplay, brainwashing, and mind control.” 

“What?!” 

“As several of these dealings came at the digit tips of mnemosurgeons and their ilk, I developed an extreme distrust of the profession.” He smiled cynically. “And while I understand that the mnemosurgeons practicing today have developed a rigorous code of ethics, I still have difficulty in trusting them.”

“That’s… Wow.” Jazz sat back, stunned. He tried to imagine the mild mech sitting in front of him acting against the government, or being mind controlled into doing something that he did not want to do, and failed. “Totally understandable, not trusting them. But…” Jazz thought of the minibot who visited him a few times in the early days of his recovery to check on his progress. “I mean, Callosum doesn’t seem the type to pull that kind of stuff. In fact, he outright refused to do anything until I’d had a chance to try to sort some things out on my own.”

“If this… If Callosum can help you overcome these attacks that you have had, I can only support him,” Prowl said, bringing his tone back to one that was carefully neutral. 

Jazz noticed that his cube was empty, and decided it was a good time to change the subject. “So, ah – did you want to listen to the beginning of the set I’ve cobbled together?” he asked.

“I would be delighted,” Prowl said, also obviously eager to move to another topic. “Would you like me to sit here or on the couch?”

“Wherever you’d be more comfortable,” said Jazz, rising to pick up the electro-bass. He keyed a few chords and waited as Prowl settled onto the couch. “So, ah, once I started noodling around on this thing I realized that there were a lot of songs that I remembered. Or rather, my digits remembered how to play them, and I just went along for the ride,” he said with a laugh, and began to play. 

From the first notes, Jazz simply let his digits do their own thing on the instrument’s keys. It was strange how familiar the music felt, even when he did not know what was coming next. In some passages, he expected the tune to take one direction but his digits took it another, and it worked. The thrum of the deep notes resonated in his chassis, and he felt his spark twirl and sing along with the melody. 

As the music swirled around him, Jazz watched Prowl, who sat on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his cube dangling forgotten in his digits. The Praxian’s optics were fixated on Jazz, and his door wings were spread wide to catch every harmonic and chord. Lost in the music, Prowl’s lips parted slightly and his helm tipped slightly to the side.

He really was a gorgeous mech, Jazz thought, with a spark to match. Jazz’s digits danced through a quick passage of notes, and Prowl’s optics went dim as he listened intently. Jazz knew that Prowl particularly enjoyed this part of the song, and so Jazz poured his spark into the arpeggio, hoping to show Prowl just how…

…how much…

…just how much the mech meant to him.

Jazz’s engine stalled. This mech… This wonderful, frustrating, incorrigible, impossible, amazing mech! This mech with the unparalleled dedication to his work and the Autobot cause. This mech with a love for the expensive high-grade (to be carefully sipped on special occasions only). This mech who always made time for Jazz when he was returning from a mission and just needed someone near. This mech who made Jazz’s leg struts weak when he turned his intense gaze on him. 

Jazz’s spark twisted at the thought of Prowl in any kind of pain that Jazz might have caused, even unintentionally. 

Prowl’s optics brightened suddenly. “Jazz?” he asked. His brow furrowed as he leaned forward as if to spring from the couch. “Jazz. Are you all right?”

Jazz realized that he had stopped playing, the electro-bass held loosely between his digits. “Prowler...” he said, his vocalizer strangled with static.

“Yes?” asked Prowl, concern still painted on his faceplates.

“I... called you Prowler.”

The cube in Prowl’s hand fell to the floor.

Jazz quickly put the bass down and crossed the room in three strides. He took Prowl’s face in his hands, tilting it up towards his. “I remember. Us. Not... I don’t remember everything. I don’t remember specific events or conversations or – Pit, much of any of whatever we’ve done together. But I remember **us**.” He trailed his thumbs over the seams that ran down Prowl’s face from his optics. “I remember how I felt about you. And I can still feel it, Prowl. Prowler.” 

Broken from his shock, Prowl’s field flamed with joy and astonishment. “Yes. You called me Prowler.” He tilted his helm, leaning into one of Jazz’s hands and encouraging him to stroke his cheek. “Oh, Primus... I did not realize just how much I missed that ridiculous nickname.”

The racer traced his digits up the sides of Prowl’s helm, across his brow, and slid one thumb up Prowl’s red chevron. The Praxian’s vents caught and he uttered a tiny moan that might have been Jazz’s name. Leaning forward, Jazz said, “Can I...?”

“Yes!” Prowl exclaimed, radiating anticipation.

Jazz sank onto the couch next to Prowl and stared him straight in the optics. Bright blue lenses looked back at him, darting around Jazz’s face as if trying to burn the image straight into his long-term memory. 

How many times had Jazz kissed Prowl before this time? Jazz couldn’t know, but he knew that to him it felt like his very first kiss. His lips brushed Prowl’s chastely, barely touching, before pulling away again to rub his thumb across those full lips. “My Prowler,” he murmured, reveling in the feelings that name conjured in him.

Leaning in again, Jazz pressed his lips firmly against Prowl’s, and Prowl leaned into it. Jazz heard a whirring noise, and noted that his fans had kicked into high gear... Or were those Prowl’s? He moved his hands down Prowl’s chest and slid them behind his back, fingering the hinges of his door wings and eliciting a loud moan from the tactician.

Prowl’s hands were not idle, trailing up from Jazz’s knees, across his abdomen to his chest armor. A digit on each hand traced the outline of Jazz’s headlights. He flinched as a jolt of power ran through his frame.

In a gasping laugh, Jazz said, “Hah... Ah! You’d think that we were both comin’ off a twelve-hundred vorn dry spell.” Resting his helm against Prowl’s chevron, he gazed into his optics. “Are ya?”

“There was never anyone else, Jazz,” Prowl said evenly, and caught Jazz’s lips in another kiss. Biting gently down on his lower lip, Prowl licked and nibbled his way up Jazz’s helm to his sensor horn. He ran his glossa around the base of the horn and then gently traced his way up to the tip.

Jazz arched his frame against Prowl’s as the sensations threatened to overwhelm his sensor net. “Ah! Prowler... Tell me if you wanna.... Or if you don’t wanna... ‘Cuz I sure do –“ His vocalizer failed as Prowl’s digits found their way under his front bumper, and he whined in need.

“Yes,” replied Prowl, his own voice and field heavy with lust. He cradled Jazz’s face in his other hand. “Interface with me. Please. Jazz.”

Nodding, Jazz turned his helm and curled his glossa around Prowl’s thumb, drawing it into his mouth and suckling on it. He heard Prowl’s engine falter before roaring back to life, heat radiating from his vents. Jazz bit down on the thumb and dragged his digits up Prowl’s back and across the back of his sensitive door wings.

With a growl, Prowl pushed Jazz down onto the couch and straddled Jazz’s legs. The racer pulled Prowl’s frame down with him and dragged his helm to his for another feverish kiss. 

When they broke apart again, Jazz laughed, suddenly remembering conversations he had just a few deca-cycles ago. “So, ah, I’ve been told... That is, mechs who knew me before said...” He looked up at Prowl, who tilted his helm with a curious expression. Jazz laughed again, nervously. “They said that I was known for being a bit of an interface ace, ya know? Except... I don’t remember any of that.”

“None of it?” a look of concern flickered across Prowl’s faceplates.

“Well...“ Jazz ran his hands up Prowl’s chest and dipped his digits into the gaps in Prowl’s shoulders. He was rewarded with a shudder from the Praxian. “I remember the basics, of course. And I remember flashes, here and there. But if you were hoping for, ya know, anything freaky...”

Understanding bloomed in Prowl’s expression, and he leaned down to kiss Jazz again, gently. “I see,” he said. “No, Jazz, I am not looking for ‘anything freaky.’ Not tonight, that is. Just having you here is enough for me.” He tapped his forehelm gently against Jazz’s before adding with a smirk, “However, I shall keep that in mind in the future. After all, I still remember everything that you showed me. Now I have the opportunity to return the favour.”

With another laugh, Jazz drew a hand down the side of Prowl’s helm. “Looking forward to it,” he purred. 

Prowl pressed forward into another kiss as his digits dug into the transformation seams on Jazz’s sides. Jazz arched upwards, pressing his chest into Prowl’s as the tactician’s digits drew sparks of sensation from his frame. When Prowl dipped his helm to trace his glossa down Jazz’s collar, Jazz leaned his helm forward and planted a long lick of his own up the side of Prowl’s chevron. Prowl gasped and jerked his helm back slightly, so Jazz raked his digits across the upper edge of Prowl’s door wings.

Shuddering and groaning Jazz’s name, Prowl fumbled a hand down the Polyheixan’s side. Jazz shifted, twisting his hip to guide Prowl’s digits. Finally Prowl dragged his digits across the hardline port that was already open at Jazz’s hip, and Jazz hissed at the sudden, crackling touch against his port. 

A moment later, Jazz felt Prow’s interface cable snick into his port. A short burst of data and power through the cable froze Jazz in place for a moment before he recovered. “Here...” Jazz carelessly unspooled his own cable and slid it into Prowl’s port to complete the circuit.

Like a lithium lily blooming, Prowl’s processor opened to Jazz as his firewalls fell. There were no reservations and no hesitation – only joy at the joining. [[Jazz, I missed you – missed this – so much.]] Prowl sent another burst of sensory data, and Jazz felt Prowl’s pleasure as the Polyhexian shuddered beneath him.

[[I know you did.]] He tipped Prowl’s helm down and ran his denta up the edge of Prowl’s chevron, delighting in the quake that rocked his frame and fed back to him through their connection. [[If I could go back, change things, so that you weren’t hurt, I’d do it in an instant.]] He dragged the tips of his digits from the back of Prowl’s wings to the front, trailing them again along the sensitive leading edge and gasping as the sensation tore through Prowl and into him. “Slag, how could I have forgotten this?” he muttered.

Just as his digits seemed to remember how to play the electro-bass on their own, Jazz’s digits found the hidden spots and crevices in Prowl’s frame that made the Praxian convulse and keen with desire. Caressing this sensor node caused his door wings to shiver, while that set of cables could be strummed to produce a sob. Meanwhile, Prowl’s hands roved over Jazz’s frame, fondling favoured places to draw similar reactions from a frame that he knew very well. 

Each touch and stroke fed back through the link, amplified higher and higher. One would send a jolt through the other, which then careened back to the giver in a spiraling feedback loop. 

“Prowl... I can’t...” Jazz whimpered, finally reduced to simply clinging to his lover, his helm thrown back against the arm of the couch.

[[Let go, Jazz. Overload for me. Let me see it again.]]

With a quavering wail, Jazz felt the surge crash over his frame, and moments later he felt the reaction when Prowl followed him. His visor and audials whited out with static as the electricity crackled down their frames.

***

Several warnings pinged on Jazz’s HUD as he came back online: mostly temperature and minor frame damage warnings. Jazz dismissed them all and focused his visor on the black and white mech that was pinning him to the surface of the couch.

Prowl’s clear blue optics were watching as Jazz powered back up. His field exuded delight and wonder. [[My Jazz.]] He drew a thumb gently across the bottom of Jazz’s visor and down his cheek. 

Jazz nuzzled his lips into Prowl’s palm. [[My Prowler.]] 

Prowl’s expression tensed slightly, tracing Jazz’s lips and facial seams. [[You came back to me. Finally.]] Jazz gasped at the surge of emotion that came through the hardline with the words: elation, relief, and the memory of burning loneliness. 

Vorns of empty nights. 

Regret. 

Jazz balled up the newly-rediscovered feelings for the Praxian and pushed them through the hardline in response, trying to soothe over Prowl's distress. [[I’m as back as I can be.]] Jazz drew lazy circles on one of Prowl’s door wings with a single digit. [[And as for what I’m missin’... Just think, you can tell me all yer bad jokes again.]]

A genuine laugh burst from Prowl’s vocalizer and he planted a kiss on Jazz’s visor. [[I shall have to think of some, then.]]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus! If you want to read this chapter from Prowl's point of view, see chapter two of [Anamnesis: Extras](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11730966/chapters/26481519)!


	10. Incursion

Prowl sat still, his field giving away nothing and his optics steady on the mnemosurgeon. Jazz held his hand tightly in his, pushing reassurance and comfort towards the Praxian. Funny, Jazz thought, that he was the one comforting Prowl, when it was his own mind being discussed.

“I believe the staff at the medical centre were correct in their diagnosis,” said the grey minibot, scanning the data pad. “These readings are indicative of classic panic attacks.” Callosum put the data pad on his desk before regarding Jazz with green optics. “If you feel comfortable telling me, what were you doing when you had these attacks?”

“Well, nothing special.” He felt Prowl give his hand a squeeze, and was suddenly glad that he hadn’t talked Prowl out of inviting himself along to this appointment. “Getting some final work done on my frame. Falling into recharge. And... walking though that square with the... that monument.”

Callosum tilted his helm. “Which monument?”

Jazz glanced at Prowl, unsure if it had a name. Prowl’s door wings twitched once, then again, before answering the question for Jazz. “The Arrival of the Colonies,” he said, his tone flat. “The first time we entered the square, Jazz displayed extreme discomfort, so we left quickly. The second time, he had a panic attack and collapsed.”

The minibot glanced down, tenting his digits together and rested them on his nasal ridge. A tremor rippled through Prowl’s wings as the mnemosurgeon’s hands came into view. “Hmm. Visual and audio cues are often triggers for unpleasant memories.” He looked back up at Jazz. “If you’d like, I can see if I can isolate the memory that is causing you difficulty. If I am able to do so, I can then do one of several things: leave it alone, remove the memory’s ability to lock up your processor in a panic attack, completely remove any emotional connections to it, or delete it all together.”

Frowning, Jazz tried to ignore the disgust that was trickling into Prowl’s field. “If you delete it, I won’t ever know what it was, will I?”

“No, it would be gone forever. But so would its ability to cause you any type of pain.”

“I’ve already got so many holes in my memory, I don’t really want to go outta my way to create another one,” he said dryly. 

“Perfectly understandable,” said Callosum.

“And how about just removing all the... Whatcha call ‘em, emotional connections?”

“Then you would be able to view the memory, but it would be like watching a vid of someone else. You would feel nothing for whatever happened.”

“And that ain’t right either,” Jazz said. “All right, then. If you just get rid of the panic attacks... I’d still be able to know what happened?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” Callosum replied. “You will still be able to recall the memory, along with any feelings that are associated with it. But it will no longer cause the errors you have been experiencing.”

“Then that’s what I want to do,” Jazz said. 

The mnemosurgeon looked at Prowl warily for a klik before looking back to Jazz. “Would you like me to perform the procedure now? Or do you want to think about it?”

“If ya do it now, can Prowl stay?” Jazz asked. Prowl tensed, but then stroked his thumb on Jazz’s hand where he held it.

“If you both wish so, yes,” Callosum said cautiously. He typed for a moment on his console and then handed a data pad to Jazz. “Here is the consent form. Please review it –“ he glanced at Prowl again, whose optics had not left the mnemosurgeon since they entered his office. “...Review it carefully to ensure we are in complete agreement.”

Jazz read the document, holding the pad tilted towards Prowl so he could read it as well. Jazz thought it looked straightforward: Callosum would isolate the memory, repair it if needed, remove any triggers that could cause Jazz’s processor to crash or seize, and then lock the memory with a keyword sequence so that Jazz could review the repaired memory when he was ready. 

“Prowl?” he asked quietly.

The tactician finished reading and looked back up at the mnemosurgeon with icy blue optics. “What guarantee is there that you will only touch this memory, and that none of his other memories will be affected?” 

As if anticipating the question, Callosum pulled himself to his full height at his desk, which was not very imposing compared to the two larger mechs sitting across from him. “You have my professional word. And if there is any issue or complaint regarding anything I have done, you can file a formal malpractice complaint against me with the Board. If the complaint is found to be valid, I will lose my licence, my practice, and my livelihood.” He looked directly at Prowl. “I fully understand your reservations. Your previous experiences are infamous, and are held up as an example of what our profession cannot allow to happen... not anymore. Please believe me when I say that I will only work in Jazz’s best interests here.” 

“It’s all right, Prowl,” Jazz said, resting a hand on Prowl’s arm. “I want to get this fixed. Please.”

Prowl’s face turned to Jazz, and his hard expression softened. “You do not need my permission, Jazz. I simply do not want to see you hurt.”

“I’m hurting now. I want it to stop.” Jazz gave Prowl’s hand one more squeeze before looking back to Callosum. “I consent. Repair me, doc.”

***

Jazz flipped the data slug around in his digits. On it was the keyword sequence that would unlock the memory that Callosum had found, fixed, and encrypted.

The mnemosurgeon had said that the memory was badly fragmented and partially damaged. “I have pieced together what I could,” he had said after blotting the energon from the back of Jazz’s neck. “I locked the file and removed the damaged emotional connections that were causing your processor to lock up. As I suspected based on the readings the medical centre provided, it was a fight-or-flight subroutine that would get caught in a loop; that has been repaired.” He came back around so that Jazz could see him, and he gave Jazz a cautious look. “At your request I left all the other emotions associated with the memory intact. But be forewarned: the emotions still associated with it are strong, and not pleasant.”

With Ratchet’s permission, Prowl and Jazz had ensconced themselves in the lounge at the medical centre. The place was familiar and comforting for Jazz, and medical staff would be close by if there was an issue. Prowl sat next to Jazz and watched the racer play with the data slug. “You do not have to do this if you do not want to,” he said softly.

“I’m missin’ so much stuff, Prowl,” he said. “I don’t remember meeting you. I don’t remember Autobot training. I don’t remember joining Spec Ops, I don’t remember anything about – Earth? – and I don’t remember any specific details about the war. All I’ve got left is ancient – Staniz, the murders of the senators, Optimus getting the Matrix... Stuff that’s millions of years old. It’s like some other mech has been living my life, and I just get to see fragments here and there.” He raised his visor to look at Prowl. “If this fills in even just a little piece of my life, it’s worth it... Even if it hurts.”

The Praxian nodded. “I understand.” He accepted the data slug from Jazz and slipped it into his wrist reader. His optics flickered as he read the slug. A moment later he said, “Whenever you are ready.”

Jazz nodded and slipped his hand into Prowl’s. “Go for it.”

Prowl held Jazz’s hand firmly and said, “See you in the Well, Breaker.”

***

“We don’t have a lot of info on the base or the research facility,” Jazz said, putting a surface map up on the display in the hop ship’s meeting room. “All we know is that the ‘Cons have this place under intense protection. We’re gonna need to dodge patrols, both in orbit and once we get on the ground, and then figure out our own way into the base.” Flipping the display back to its default view, Jazz faced Bumblebee and Trailbreaker. “We’re goin’ in on a hunch, but it’s one of Prowl’s hunches, so it’s probably 110% right.”

Bumblebee cracked a smile. “Really? 110%? He’d dress you down for distorting one of his calculations like that.”

Jazz grinned. “I’m sure he would.” He leaned forward in his chair and got serious again. “But I think even I would’ve come to the same conclusion, based on all the information we’ve gotten: multiple visits from Shockwave, requisitions for huge amounts of ore and energon, and a quadrupling of the troop count in the system. Somethin’ big is going on down there, and we gotta find out what it is before the ‘Cons can make use of it.” 

Bumblebee and Trailbreaker glanced at each other silently, then looked back at Jazz. He waited a moment before asking, “Any questions? No? Ai’ght, get some recharge. We’ve got six groons before we come out of hop space.”

His team left the meeting room and Jazz leaned back in the chair with a long exvent. The hunch may be 110% right, but he still hated going into places blind: no map, no real idea what they’re looking for, and impossible odds if they got caught. 

Jazz smoothed over the pre-mission anxiety with well-practiced ease. His thoughts drifted back to the box and bottle of high-grade he had stashed in his quarters back at base, and pictured what Prowl’s face would look like when he opened the gift. Another stab of anxiety twisted his spark, this one having nothing to do with the mission. “Ah, Prowler,” he muttered. “You better say yes, ya slagger.”

_~shift~_

This fragging moon was so humid, it was a relief to finally get into the duct works of the research facility. Normally Jazz hated crawling down dusty, cramped flues, but the air inside the ducts was actually moving, and it was several degrees cooler than the air on the surface of the jungle moon.

Several cycles after gaining access to the air vents, Jazz and his team had mapped out the first three levels of the facility. There were far more Decepticons here than they originally suspected, and Jazz had a sinking feeling that the facility was much larger than they had known.

Jazz saw Bumblebee crawling towards him and Trailbreaker. When Bumblebee saw that he had Jazz’s attention, he motioned for them to follow him. Creeping forward from the junction where they had been waiting, the team moved silently down the duct that Bee had come from.

Bumblebee reached a grating in the bottom of the duct and turned to face Jazz again. He pointed down and used hand signals to indicate: Large room. Suspected target location. Four enemies visible. 

Jazz peered through the grating and saw a control room. If he craned his neck he could see windows that looked out onto a large area, but he couldn’t see anything beyond that.

He pulled back from the grating and turned so that both team mates could see his hand signals: Sweep area. Determine patrol pattern. Both of his team members nodded and disappeared up different ducts.

Settling in, Jazz watched the Decepticons working in the room below him, listening for any conversation fragments that might give him a clue as to what they were doing. This level was half a kilometer below the surface; whatever the ‘Cons were working on, they didn’t want it visible to anyone.

_~shift~_

Jazz heard the commotion as Bumblebee and Trailbreaker fell from the ceiling into the control room, and dropped from his own grating onto the Decepticon scientist below him. It was an almost perfect takedown: Bee took out two ‘Cons with his statis rod while Trailbreaker took care of the third. Jazz’s ‘Con didn’t even know anything was wrong until he was in stasis himself.

Almost perfect.

“Runner!” Jazz looked up to see Trailbreaker pointing at a green mech who had just entered the control room bolting back out. With a leap, Jazz tore through the door and slammed the ‘Con’s helm against the metal floor with a clang, jamming his stasis rod into his neck to disable him.

Retreating back to the control room, Jazz stood next to Bumblebee as the smaller mech worked at a panel in front of him. Jazz signaled Trailbreaker to put up a disruption field to block their comm signals, and unholstered his blaster. ::If that glitch didn’t get off a comm before I nailed him, it’ll be a miracle. Work fast, Bee.::

But Bumblebee wasn’t looking at the panel; he was staring out the window of the control room. Jazz’s comm seemed to startle him back into action. ::Yeah. Right. On it.::

Looking out the window, Jazz saw what had caught Bumblebee’s attention. In a room the size of the hop ship’s shuttle bay, a huge glowing red orb hung in the air. Bolts of red lightning crawled across its surface as it spun slowly.

::What the frag is that?::

Bumblebee had plugged into the panel and was downloading anything he could find, scanning it as he accessed it. His optics widened. ::Prowl was 110% right, as usual. The ‘Cons scored some schematics from the Galactic Council and are building a geobomb.:: 

Leaning on the panel in front of him, Jazz stared at the huge red orb helplessly. ::That’s some serious bad news, Bee.::

::Hey guys, company’s coming.:: Trailbreaker dropped the disruption field and readied his blaster. 

“Let us know when you’re done, Bee. We’re outta time!” 

Trailbreaker and Jazz were able to use the doorway’s chokepoint into the control room to their advantage for a short while. The higher the pile of frames got in the doorway, the less and less willing the Decepticons seemed to be to climb over the mound. Jazz spared a glance to Bumblebee, who was finally unplugging from the panel. “Bee, ya done?”

Before Bumblebee could answer, a helicopter mech appeared at the window of the control room and opened fire. The glass shattered inward and the room was sprayed with the chopper’s blaster fire.

“Down!” Trailbreaker threw up his forcefield, but not before one of the mech’s shots found his shoulder. He snarled. “Frag! I’m hit!” 

Jazz’s processor spun trying to see a way out of this mess and quickly settled on a plan. A stupid, reckless plan, but it was the best he could come up with this fast, what with the helicopter mech still firing at Trailbreaker’s forcefield and a few ‘Cons still climbing over the mech pile into the control room. ::On the count of three, Breaker, drop the ‘field. I’m gonna take out the chopper, and we go through the window into the bottom of that room and regroup. That should help us lose the welcoming party for a few kliks. Ready? Three, two, one...::

The forcefield dropped. 

One of the mechs that had climbed over the pile of frames in the doorway sprang towards the Autobots with a guttural yell. 

Jazz levelled his blaster at the helicopter mech. 

His first shot was a direct hit on his cockpit, and the chopper skittered sideways in the air.

His second shot, aimed for where the chopper had been a moment before, went wide. 

A flash of red light overwhelmed his optics, and heat blazed through his frame, stripping paint and burning out thermosensors.

Someone was screaming. He realized it was him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm crap at action sequences; hope this makes sense. -.-;
> 
> You might have noticed the chapter count crawled up by one... That's what happens when you start into your editing. :)


	11. At the Well

_~shift~_

“FRAG frag frag we’re dead we’re dead oh Primus we’re dead aaah frag frag –”

“Shut that mech up or I’ll shut him up permanently.” Jazz had done what he could for Trailbreaker’s shoulder with his field kit, but the blaster bolt that had hit him had torn through one of his secondary energon lines. The patch job only stemmed the flow; without real medical help, the outlier would bleed out and deactivate. “I think that’ll do ya for now, Breaker,” Jazz said quietly. 

“Thanks, Jazz,” Trailbreaker replied. “It feels better already.”

“Liar.”

Trailbreaker grinned up at Jazz. “You’ve got an impeccable bedside manner. Taking lessons from Ratchet?”

“He’s given me lots of practice,” Jazz said with a smile, patting Trailbreaker’s good shoulder. “Rest a bit now, Breaker.” Standing up from where Trailbreaker knelt in the rubble, Jazz looked over to the Decepticon who cowered at Bumblebee’s pedes. 

“And you,” he said sharply, standing next to the purple and blue mech. “Meltdown, is it? You best forget how your vocalizer works, or I’ll rip it out of you. Your howlin’ is slag we don’t need right now.”

Meltdown looked up at Jazz, then at Bumblebee. He nodded and silently lowered his helm into his hands.

Jazz paced around the perimeter of Trailbreaker’s forcefield, peering through it with the glow from his headlights. There wasn’t much to see. Broken rocks and shards of metal plating were pressed against the field. On one side, half of a mech was crushed gruesomely between the forcefield and a chunk of concrete. A scan showed that the rubble stretched for more than a kilometer in any direction, including up.

Bumblebee opened a private comm channel to Jazz. ::It’s not looking good, boss.::

Jazz turned his visor to the yellow minibot, his spark heavy. ::No, it’s not.::

Moving a few strides to stand next to Jazz, facing the darkness, Bumblebee hooked his digits into the armour seams at his waist casually. ::There’s something else. I finished reviewing all the info I collected. That wasn’t the only geobomb.::

Jazz’s spark went cold. ::What?::

::There’s another one here. Further down. I found a map of the facility, and it goes down a lot farther than where we were. There’s a second bomb in a lower level. A larger one.::

::Is it possible it went off when the first one did?:: Jazz gestured at the rubble on the other side of the forcefield. 

Bumblebee shook his helm. ::Based on the yield estimates I found, no. If the larger one went off, we’d be floating in space because the moon would have been completely destroyed. This is all just from the smaller one.::

“Frag us,” Jazz said with a slow exvent. ::We gotta get this back to Command. They gotta know that the ‘Cons got this tech.::

::Well, we just gotta wait until the hop ship comes back, right? At the least, we can get a message to them, even if they can’t get us out.:: 

The hop ship would arrive in just five more cycles. Jazz looked at Trailbreaker. ::Right. We just gotta wait.::

_~shift~_

The ground shook again, rhythmically. Trailbreaker groaned, writhing a bit in the space that Jazz and Bumblebee had cleared for him. Jazz watched him warily, but the mech’s forcefield held.

“What’re they doing up there?” Bumblebee asked, glancing up reflexively even though there was nothing to see but crushed rubble.

Jazz nudged the Decepticon with a pede. “Hey. Meltdown. Do ya know what’s goin’ on up there?” When the mech did not answer, Jazz exvented and added, “Go ahead and talk, just stop with the glitched screamin’ and moanin’.”

Meltdown did not raise his helm from his hands. “I don’t know.”

“Ai’ght.” Jazz crouched down next to the Decepticon and put his hand on the mech’s shoulder. “Tell me what you do know. For the moment, we’re in this together, so anything you might know could come in handy.”

Meltdown raised his orange visor to meet Jazz’s gaze. “I only got assigned here two orbital cycles ago. Someone told me that whatever they were working on… The bomb, I guess… was one of Shockwave’s projects, but that Lord Megatron didn’t know anything about it.” He lowered his helm to his hands again. “So… They’re probably destroying whatever’s left of the base.”

“So Shockwave can keep Megatron from finding out what he was doing behind his back,” Bumblebee guessed.

“That don’t make any sense,” Jazz said skeptically. “Wouldn’t Megatron be happy about a new super weapon? This kind of slag seems like it’s right up his track.”

"Based on what I saw in the records I collected, it doesn’t look like the Galactic Council gave the schematics to Shockwave. I think he stole them,” Bumblebee explained. He leaned back against a chunk of rock. 

“Slag.” Jazz sat heavily on the ground next to Trailbreaker. He checked the wound in his shoulder and grimaced when he saw that the energon leak had not eased. “So Shockwave either doesn’t want to explain to his boss that he’s running around stealing tech and makin’ more enemies, or that he lost a research base because one of his toys exploded.”

“You’re the one that shot it,” Meltdown muttered.

Jazz shot a poisonous look at the Decepticon and

_~shift~_

said, “I’m not gonna make ya if ya don’t wanna.” He held out the energon siphon to the blue and purple mech. “Both Bumblebee and I have given him some, but we need him to stay online for another three cycles. He needs more ‘cuz I can’t totally fix the leak in his shoulder.”

Meltdown took the hose and looked up at Jazz. “Three more cycles. Then what?”

“Then we get a message out to our extraction team, and hopefully they can figure out how to get us out of here,” Bumblebee said. His optics were dim; Jazz suspected he’d donated more energon to Trailbreaker than he said he had.

“Wouldn’t he need to stay online long enough for them to rescue us, too?” Meltdown asked.

“Well, yeah.”

“So, more than three cycles.”

Jazz threw his hands into the air. “Or, ya know, you could just not do anything and let Breaker go offline sooner.”

“Jazz…” Bumblebee said softly.

“So why aren’t you forcing me?” Meltdown asked. Jazz felt genuine curiosity in the mech’s field, a change from the constant despair and fear he’d been exuding for cycles now. 

“Because we’re Autobots,” Jazz said firmly. “If you don’t want to donate your energon to save us… or yourself… that’s your decision.” He kept his face and field carefully neutral.

Meltdown fingered the hose for another moment before opening his chest port and plugging it in. “What the slag, why not. If I don’t, I’m dead. If I do, I might still be dead. But if... if I deactivate, and one of you does get outta here, promise me… Get word to Half Track that… Tell him... Tell him I’m sorry. For everything.”

Jazz nodded solemnly. “Thanks, mech,” he said, plugging the other end of the hose into Trailbreaker’s chest port. “You’re helpin’ save all our frames here. How much do ya want to give?”

“Might as well give enough so that I drop into stasis lock,” Meltdown said, settling next to Trailbreaker. “That way, if this doesn’t work, I won’t feel a fragging thing.”

_~shift~_

“I was gonna propose, when we got back from this mission.”

“To Prowl?”

Jazz laughed, weakly. He was pretty sure he’d give Trailbreaker a bit too much. His processor swam and his tanks churned. “Yes, you glitch, who else? To Prowl. He loves all those formalities, so I got him a custom gift, and some of the high-grade he likes, and I was gonna tell him a funny story he’s never heard of when I was livin’ in Rodion… Yeah. Prowl.”

Bumblebee’s optics glowed in the darkness. They’d both shut off their headlights to save energy. “He’ll say yes.”

“Don’t think I’m gonna get a chance to ask him, Bee.” He leaned his helm against Trailbreaker’s frame. Jazz had figured out groons ago that there must be a second leak somewhere inside the outlier’s frame. However, without tools he couldn’t get to it, and he feared anything he did try would just make the leak worse. “We’re still over a full cycle from our pick up, and…”

Jazz felt Bumblebee grab his wrist and turn it over. “Open your data port,” he said. Confused, Jazz complied and felt Bumblebee jack into his wrist. “I’m giving you the info I got from the mainframe here. Take it, and then hook me back into Trailbreaker. I’ll give him enough to drop me into stasis, like Meltdown.”

“Bee, no!” Jazz tried to yank the cord from his wrist, but Bumblebee grabbed his other hand and held it fast.

“Jazz, think. Think for a klik. You’re bigger than I am. If anyone is gonna survive this it’s you, or maybe Trailbreaker. If this goes bad, your larger frame will help protect you. Get the word back to base about that bomb in the ground under us, and… maybe get them to come back and get us.”

“Bee…” Jazz allowed the download, and felt Bumblebee unplug from his data port. Bumblebee flipped on his headlights for a moment to connect one end of the energon tube to his port and the other end to Trailbreaker’s. 

In darkness once more, Bumblebee looked up at Jazz’s dim visor. “The happiest I’ve ever seen Prowl – ever! – was after you two started dating. Do good by him, Jazz.”

_~shift~_

The cable clicked into Trailbreaker’s medical port, and Jazz requested a diagnostic.

_Energon level: 11%. Systems critical._

“Yeah, yeah,” Jazz muttered. He unplugged his cable and hooked the energon tube to his chest port once more. “Breaker, old buddy, looks like you’re gonna be the last mech standing. Err, laying.”

“You’re gonna put yourself into stasis if you give me anymore,” Trailbreaker said weakly. 

“And if I don’t give ya anymore, then we’re all scrap.” He curled up next to Trailbreaker’s frame. “So, here are your new orders: Survive. The hop ship will arrive in six groons. You’ve got the contact codes to hail them. Get their attention, and send that package of info I gave you as a databurst. Once you’ve done that, then ask for them to send help as soon as they can.”

Trailbreaker nodded. “Yes, sir.” The black mech offlined his optics as the energon began to flow from Jazz to him. “But... if I can’t.. if I don’t…”

Jazz put a hand on Trailbreaker’s shoulder. “Then I’ll see ya in the Well, Breaker.”

***

Jazz became aware of the arm around his shoulders before anything else. He was shaking. His tanks churned. His elbows were on his knees and his hands held his helm between his knees. Someone – Ratchet – was connected to the medical port in his neck.

“Deep vents, now, Jazz. That’s it.”

“This was not supposed to happen again!”

“I took the readings myself, Prowl. This wasn’t a panic attack, he was just reacting to the memory itself. He should be all right in a few kliks.”

Jazz’s engine coughed and he made a conscious effort to settle his tanks and spark, which throbbed in his chest. “I’m right here, ya know.”

The arm around his shoulder tightened. “You’re safe now,” Prowl murmured into his audial. “Everything is all right.”

Jazz shook his helm. ‘No, it ain’t all right.” He onlined his visor and found himself staring at a puddle of energon splashed on the ground and his pedes. He moaned and offlined the visor again. “It was my fault, Prowl.”

Concern and tenderness bled into Prowl’s field. “What’s your fault, Jazz?”

“The explosion. The… accident. Bumblebee. Trailbreaker. Me. You! It was all my fault. I killed us.” His tanks roiled, and he clamped down to keep from purging again. “One lousy missed shot…” he groaned.

“All right, Jazz. I’m giving you a mild sedative. That should help settle your tanks.” Jazz felt pressure at his neck, and his HUD pinged a request that he recognized from his Spec Ops protocols. _Unknown substance detected. Filtering substance from energon lines in 5, 4, 3…_ He cancelled the operation, and felt a blessed calm settle over his processor.

After steadying himself again, he onlined his visor and immediately looked up and out the lounge window so he wasn’t staring at the liquid splattered on his legs and pedes. “Ugh. Sorry. That was… intense.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ratchet said, putting his kit back together and standing up. “I’ll get a cleaner drone up here right away.” He handed Jazz a towel, who took it gratefully and cleaned the spill from his frame. As he was leaving the lounge, Ratchet added, “I’ll leave you two alone for now. Prowl, if you think he’s ok, can you get him home?”

Prowl nodded and helped Jazz move to another seat, away from the puddle and the smell. Jazz could see the Praxian was holding his door wings at a careful angle, but small twitches betrayed Prowl’s worry for his lover.

They sat in silence for a moment before Prowl asked, “I am sorry you had to live through that again. Did you… want to tell me about it?” When Jazz looked up at him sharply, Prowl quickly added, “You do not have to.”

Jazz covered his faceplates with his hands. “I don’t know. I’m still…” He dropped his hands into his lap and stared at Prowl helplessly. “It was bad luck, but it was still my fault. I’m the one who did it. Bumblebee and Trailbreaker are dead because of me. You... All those vorns alone, because of... me.” He was barely intelligible through the static in his vocalizer. “I’m so sorry, Prowler. It was my fault.”

“You are here with me now. That is what matters most to me.” Prowl took Jazz’s hands in his and levelled an intense gaze at Jazz. “But if you want to, if you think it will help... You can tell me what you saw.”

***

Jazz felt drained. The light on the city’s towers was fading by the time he finished. He told Prowl everything. Almost everything, that is; he left out his anxiety about asking Prowl to be his conjunx endura. One trauma at a time, he thought.

Prowl had listened to the whole story silently, offering encouragement through his field and touch whenever Jazz faltered. When Jazz finally fell silent, Prowl took Jazz’s hand again and gave it a firm squeeze. 

“Jazz.” Prowl waited until Jazz lifted his visor to meet Prowl’s gaze. “I do not blame you. And based on what you told me, I doubt that Bumblebee or Trailbreaker would blame you, either. As you said, it was bad luck.”

Jazz shook his helm. “It’s not just the bad shot,” he said. “It was… There were so many other things I could’ve ordered us to do. I could’ve told Breaker to leave his shield up and try... somehow... to get us outside the base ‘till we could lose the ‘Cons in the jungle. I could’ve got Bee to patch back into their security system to create a... a distraction or – something! – to draw some of their fire away from us. I could’ve –“ 

“Jazz…”

“I made the wrong call, I made a stupid decision, and we all paid the price. And for some reason, **I’m** the only mech that made it!” His engine hitched, and he tried to clear the static from his vocalizer. “It shouldn’t be me sitting here. I should be in the smelter right now, instead of Bee and Breaker.”

“Jazz.” Prowl’s voice cut firmly into Jazz’s distress. “You cannot dwell on what happened. Trust me.” Prowl leaned his helm on Jazz’s, his chevron resting just below Jazz’s crest. “For hundreds of vorns after losing you, I fell into recharge every cycle cataloguing what else I could have done that would have saved you and your team. I re-examined all the data I used to recommend the mission. I ran scenario after scenario trying to find an outcome in which you would have survived. It consumed me.” Prowl lifted his helm slightly and kissed Jazz’s nasal ridge before looking him straight in the visor. “I finally came to the conclusion that even if I found another way to save you, there was still nothing I could do about what was past. All I could do was look forward.”

Tracing a digit along the blue symbol decorating Prowl’s chest armor, Jazz said, “But you still didn’t move on. From me.”

“No. But there is a difference between experiencing grief for what has happened, and living in endless self-recrimination. The former is normal. The latter is pointless.” 

Jazz nodded. “Yeah. I see.” He exvented softly. “That’s… good advice. On feelings? From you?” He grinned weakly at Prowl. “Who are ya, and what’ve you done with my Prowler?”

Prowl ducked his helm to hide his slight smile. “Proof that I am not a sparkless drone, despite my careful cultivation of that rumour.”

With a laugh, Jazz pulled Prowl’s helm towards him and kissed him gently. Guilt still clawed at his processor, but he pushed it away for the moment and bathed in Prowl’s attention.

Jazz pulled away when he felt Prowl’s field shift slightly to include a taste of calculation. “Hey, I remember that look,” he said. “Your tac-net is running something.”

“Yes, Jazz,” Prowl said, his door wings tilting to an apologetic angle. “And I hope this is not too soon to ask you this. But… The data packet that Bumblebee gave you. Is it intact? Are you able to access it?”

Jazz examined the memory file that was assembled by Callosum, and found a file that was tagged as possibly related. Opening it, he realized it was the information that Bumblebee had downloaded from the ‘Cons’ mainframe. He nodded, sorrow clouding his field again. “Yes. It’s intact, near as I can tell.”

Prowl held out his wrist. “May I review it?” he asked. “I believe it may be important, even now. The remediation team currently on the moon may be in extreme danger.”

Suddenly realizing what Prowl was after, Jazz’s spark jumped. He immediately held out his own wrist and let Prowl jack in.


	12. Affirmation

Jazz nervously practiced the fingering for the first song in his set as he waited for the performer on stage to finish. He checked the tuning of his electro-bass. He reviewed his set list one more time. 

Finally, he shook his helm to clear it. All he was doing was making himself more nervous. He knew his set, he knew his songs… All he had to do was get up there and play.

From the wings of the stage, he scanned the crowd in the darkened club. It was a full house, with mechs clustered at lighted tables. Mirage was behind the bar with his other bartenders, mixing a drink for a customer. Blaster was gliding through the crowd, watching patrons’ reactions to the performer. Tonight was an audition of sorts for all of the performers; any mech who did well would be invited back, and likely offered a permanent slot in the entertainment lineup. The variety of acts on these nights often drew large crowds.

One mech that Jazz did not see, however, was a certain black and white Praxian. Prowl had promised that he would make it Jazz’s debut at the club, but Jazz suspected that his meeting with Deputy Ministers Avalanche and Thundercracker had gone long. The information that he had supplied about the geobomb had the potential to be extremely sensitive, and Prowl wanted to ensure that he presented it personally. 

A smattering of applause interrupted his reverie. Jazz grinned at the other performer as the Vosian came off the stage with his laser harp. “Fantastic set, mech,” Jazz said. “I’m kinda sorry to be goin’ after ya! Way to set the bar high.”

The Vosian laughed, relief bleeding out into his field. “Wow, thanks. I was so nervous. I’ve never played in front of a crowd before.”

“Really? Ya fooled me! You were great!”

Their conversation was interrupted by Blaster’s amplified voice. “Another hand for Cloudrunner! All right, next up we have an old friend of mine, a blast from the past: Jazz!” 

Climbing the stage stairs to a polite round of applause, Jazz gave the audience a wave and set up his electro-bass. He did not trust his vocalizer to be steady, so he said nothing and set aside the microphone. He took another deep vent, strummed a practice chord, and started into his first song.

When he raised his visor to the crowd, his optics were immediately drawn to a striking figure standing in the back of the club, black and white door wings spread wide to catch every note. Jazz’s spark soared as soon as he caught sight of Prowl, and he poured that energy into his music.

***

The final chord of his last song hung in the air for a crystalline moment, the notes reverberating around the club. Engrossed in his music, Jazz had not noticed that the crowd had fallen silent until he began to lift his helm, trying to judge the reaction of the mechs listening.

Suddenly, applause cascaded over him. A tension that he hadn’t yet acknowledged bled out of his frame, and he held his bass to the side as he bowed with a flourish.

Mounting the stage stairs in a bound, Blaster slapped Jazz on his back struts. “Let’s hear it for Jazz!” he crowed to the audience. Blaster clapped along with the crowd as Jazz took another bow before picking up his instrument and leaving the stage.

As Blaster announced the next performer, Jazz caught sight of Prowl waiting for him to the side of the stage. The Praxian’s optics glowed brightly in the dim light of the club. He stepped forward as soon as he caught Jazz’s gaze, a small smile on his lips. He swept Jazz into an embrace. “That was incredible,” he said into Jazz’s audial. “As I told you earlier, you definitely have not lost your touch.”

“Thanks, Prowl.” Giving Prowl a quick hug, Jazz pulled back as Blaster descended the stairs. “So, Blaster, how’d I do?”

“Jazz, my mech, you have a guaranteed slot. But I knew you would,” Blaster said, beaming. He slipped Jazz an info chit. “Also, a patron wants to know if you were available for private parties. Here’s his contact info. So, you’ve got yourself another gig, if you want it.”

Jazz stared at the chit in his hand for a moment in shock. “But… I only played five songs!” he said, stunned. 

“I guess you made an impression!” Blaster patted Jazz on the shoulder before turning to leave. “It’s good to have you back, Jazz.”

Staring after Blaster for a moment, Jazz felt something new in Prowl’s field. He turned to the tactician. “What’s so funny?”

Shaking his helm, Prowl said, “Only your disbelief in your own talent.” He waved a door wing in an encouraging gesture. “Now, I managed to secure a table for us if you would like to listen to the rest of the performers.”

***

His processor still swirling with amazement that he was going to be playing music again – for a living! – Jazz followed Prowl’s alt-mode through the streets of Iacon City. 

Jazz had been to Prowl’s flat once before. It was a bit further from the medical centre than Jazz’s place, but it was closer to the club than Jazz’s. 

::I was afraid you weren’t gonna make my set. So... How did your meeting with Avalanche and Thundercracker go?::

::I apologize for being late. As expected, Deputy Minister Thundercracker was loathe to change the timelines for remediation of the moon. However, I believe that the right people are now aware of the potential danger.::

Prowl’s main concern, of course, had been an accidental detonation of the second geobomb. The moon had been claimed by the Tkarians, and destroying it – even accidentally – would probably have been seen as an act of war by the Galactic Council. ::That’s a huge relief, Prowl. Is the remediation team gonna get off the moon until they get it sorted?::

::Yes. They are being ordered to evacuate to a safe distance until an engineering team can arrive.:: Prowl paused as they arrived at his building. He transformed into root mode and waited for Jazz to do the same, but kept to their private comm channel. ::I advised them that the device was built based on the Galactic Council’s schematics, and perhaps their engineers would have insight as to disabling the device. Whether that information is acted on… Well…:: Prowl swiveled his wings in a shrug as he opened the door to his flat. 

Jazz regarded the tactician with curiosity as he set his instrument case down near the door. “That doesn’t sound like the Prowl I know… Or the Prowl I remember, anyway. You aren’t scheming to make sure this gets handled in the way that your tac-net says it should be handled?”

The flat was sparsely furnished, but featured a large desk that dominated the living area. A couch, table, and two comfortable chairs were arranged in a corner next to a floor-to-ceiling window that took up the entire far wall. Prowl disappeared into the kitchen area for a moment before emerging with two glasses and a bottle of high-grade. 

Prowl set the items on the table near the chairs and sat down, gesturing for Jazz to sit in the chair next to him. “I told you how I… objected… to Starscream’s ascension,” he said, pouring some blue liquid into each glass. “’Objected’ might be too soft of a term. In my rage that a former Decepticon was now ruling Cybertron, I actively worked to undermine his authority. As a result, I was finally brought before the Council to answer for what I had done, both during and after the war. I was charged with treason and sedition.”

Pausing while Jazz absorbed that information, Prowl pulled a full vent cycle. “They called hundreds of witnesses: all of the mechs I had worked with and for during the war, my operatives in the Autobots and the Wreckers, mechs that I called friends, mechs that considered me an enemy… It went on and on, for almost a full vorn.” 

“Slag, Prowl,” Jazz said quietly. He reached over to put a hand on Prowl’s arm.

Prowl was holding his field close, but he smiled at Jazz gently. “It was difficult, hearing mechs that I had trusted tell the Council how I had seemingly betrayed Cybertron itself. But I also had my defenders: while we had sparred frequently regarding my specific actions, Orion Pax’s testimony was key. In the end, I was able to convince the majority of the council that, despite my methods, I had always acted in Cybertron’s best interests.” He bowed his helm slightly, his door wings reflecting the relief he had felt at the Council’s decision. 

“If there’s one thing people have told me, Prowl, it’s that you’re one of the most loyal mechs they’ve ever met,” Jazz said, giving Prowl’s arm a squeeze. “I’m glad the Council was able to see the same thing that others do.”

“However, that is not to say there were no consequences for my actions after the war,” Prowl continued. “The Council decreed that I shall not hold any leadership position in any army or government for six hundred vorn. I shall also limit my advocacy for specific actions to facts only, and not to recommend any specific actions.”

“But… your tac-net… and the bomb…?”

A smirk crawled across Prowl’s faceplates. “I presented the facts as you gave them to me to Deputy Minister Thundercracker. He was reluctant to slow down the remediation process and impact his project time lines. His exact response was, ‘If it hasn’t exploded yet, what makes you think it ever will?’ So… I presented the same facts to several key members of the Council. That is why I was slightly delayed in arriving at Visages tonight. I let them draw their own conclusions of what may happen if the danger was not adequately mitigated.” He handed a glass of high-grade to Jazz. “Facts, when presented correctly, can be very persuasive on their own.”

Jazz laughed. “Ah! Prowl, ya had me worried there.”

Holding up his glass of high-grade to Jazz, Prowl said, “And now… To your new career. From war hero to musician.”

Touching his glass to Prowl’s, Jazz took a sip and then sucked air through his intake. “Oooh, that is smooth.” He grinned at Prowl. “You were always a sucker for the really good stuff.”

“I do not drink often, so when I do, I prefer the ‘good stuff.’”

Jazz swirled his drink around in the glass. He was still missing memories of specific events, but he felt he had recovered all of the impressions that he had once had of Prowl: fiercely loyal, dangerously quick-witted, and deviously intelligent. Jazz wondered if the vulnerability that he had seen in Prowl just now, as he remembered his trial and the Council’s decision, had also always been present, or whether that was a new development in the mech. “Prowl… Thank you for telling me this. I know I missed a lot, so I appreciate ya sharin’ this kind of stuff.”

For the first time that evening, Prowl loosened his control of his field, letting it ripple out to touch Jazz. It was full of love and relief and… anticipation, and nervousness. Before Jazz could comment on the change, Prowl set down his glass and produced a small box from under his chair. “It is and always will be my pleasure, Jazz. And… I hope to be able to share much more with you in the vorns to come.” Climbing from his chair, he knelt on one knee before Jazz’s chair, and held out the box. 

It did not escape Jazz’s notice that Prowl’s hands – Prowl’s! – were shaking slightly.

Jazz started to ask what the box was for, but he realized he already knew what it likely held. He took the box from Prowl’s hands, and removed the top. 

Nestled in carved foam was an enamel ornament about the size of his palm, the exact mirror image of the icon on Prowl’s chest plate. But where Prowl’s was the blue of Jazz’s racing stripes, edged in the red of Prowl’s chevron, this ornament was red edged in blue.

Jazz lifted the ornament from the foam and noticed a note tucked underneath.

In Prowl’s perfect handwriting, the note read: “Jazz: Please be my conjunx endura. Love always, your Prowler.”

“Prowl...” Jazz whispered. He held the ornament in his hand as if it was an onyx sparrow. 

His spark throbbed in his chest, his thoughts consumed by the mech kneeling in front of him. He felt he had recovered the essence of what he had previously felt for Prowl... Slag, even if it was a portion of what he had felt before, it was amazing. Prowl made him feel whole again. Even though he knew his memory still had holes you could drive a transport through, just having Prowl near made him feel... alive.

Jazz lifted his visor and found Prowl staring at him with dim optics and a serious expression. His door wings had started to sag, and Prowl said, “I... understand if it is too soon. I just thought –“

“Yes.”

“Pardon?” Prowl’s optics brightened. 

“Yes, Prowl. My answer is yes.”

With a flare from his field of joy and relief, Prowl let out a haggard exvent and lowered his helm to grasp and kiss Jazz’s digits where they held the ornament. He lifted his door wings and helm at the same time, but now a smile brightened his faceplates. “You sat there for so long that I...”

“Ah, sorry, Prowler! Did ya really think I was gonna say no?” Jazz asked, carefully putting the ornament in the box and setting it aside. He gripped Prowl’s hands and brought them up to his lips to kiss them. “Didn’t your tac-net tell you how good your odds were?”

“It calculated that there was a 17% chance you would say no, and another 23% chance you would refuse to answer tonight,” Prowl explained, rubbing his thumbs along Jazz’s lips as he kissed his digits. 

Lowering Prowl’s hands, Jazz looked at Prowl in surprise. “A forty percent chance that I wouldn’t say yes? Prowler...” 

Prowl shrugged, a movement that was echoed in his door wings. “I was operating on incomplete data.” He glanced away for a moment. “And I had my tac-net weigh the pessimistic scenarios more heavily. I wanted to be prepared in case...”

Jazz slithered off the chair to kneel next to Prowl. Still holding Prowl’s digits in his hands, he brought them to his chest next to his spark. “Prowl, I didn’t tell you this before, about what I remembered from the accident, but... One of the other things I remembered was that I was gonna propose. I was so nervous! I wasn’t sure if you’d say yes or not, what with the war and all.” He released Prowl’s hands and grabbed his helm, holding it steady to look into Prowl’s optics. “But I also remember how much I wanted to hear you say yes to me. So, now, I’m telling you: yes. Yes. Yes!” 

Prowl wrapped his arms around Jazz and pulled him tight against his frame, his field curling around him like a cloak made of love and gratitude. “Thank you, Jazz,” he murmured into his audial. “Thank you for returning to me, as safely as you could.”


	13. Epilogue

Jazz lounged back on the bench and looked up at the spherical monument, finally able to admire it without the crushing terror distracting him. When he had first been able to look at it without fear, he had thought it oscillated slowly. He then realized that the globe was covered in thousands of tiny, free-spinning mirrored pieces that reflected light as they twisted in the wind.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a deep voice asked. “It is a fitting image of all that we fought for: Cybertronians coming together and living in peace.”

Startled, Jazz looked up at the large red and blue mech standing beside the bench. “Opti – Orion! It’s good to see you.” He scooted over on the bench and gestured. “Please, sit down.” As Orion Pax sat, he added wryly, “Eventually I’ll remember your name on the first try.”

Orion laughed. “I’m sure you will.” He looked down at Jazz’s chest armor, where a red ornament was inlaid near his right shoulder. “I heard about you and Prowl. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Jazz replied, fingering the edges of the sigil. “I wish it could have happened a thousand vorns ago, but better late than never.”

“And how are you doing? Have you recovered any more of your memories?”

Jazz shrugged. “Nothin’ of real consequence, although I’m happy for every little shred that I get. The mnemosurgeon said that I’ve probably eked out all the big stuff that I ever will... The rest of my memory is too fragmented or damaged to be salvageable.” 

“I’m sorry. I know that it must be hard, knowing that so much of your life will remain unknowable.”

“But it’s not… not really!” Jazz smiled fondly, thinking of Prowl and his other friends, and all they had done for him. “Everyone’s been showing me pics and vids they have of me, at parties or playin’ music or dancing’, or sharing memory files of things they remember. Sometimes it’s a little weird, like I’m watching a show starring someone who looks just like me,” he admitted. “But every bit helps fill in those gaps, and makes me understand who I was. And who I am.”

Orion’s tone brightened as he smiled behind his faceplate. “That is wonderful to hear. Sometime soon, we must make some time together... I have some memories of my own that you might be interested in.” His optics glinted with humour.

Jazz smiled up at Orion. “I’d like that! And you’ll have to come hear me play sometime, too, at Visages.”

“Yes, I intend to. I have heard about the newest performer making a name for himself again in Iacon.” 

Jazz laughed self-consciously. A very favourable review in the Iaconian Gazette had resulted in capacity crowds at Visages every time Jazz played, and he had picked up a steady stream of other engagements. “Yeah, well... I’m doin’ all right these days.” 

Orion clapped a huge hand on Jazz’s shoulder and stood. “It was good to see you, Jazz. I’ll be in touch.”

“Take care, Orion.”

Jazz watched his old Prime walk out of the square before settling back into the bench. He checked his chronometer. Prowl would be meeting him soon, assuming his meeting didn’t go long.

The racer linked his hands together behind his helm and leaned back into them. He let his mind wander as he watched mechs move around the square. 

Prowl was insistent that he was the same mech he knew from over a thousand vorns ago, minus some memories. Jazz couldn’t remember enough to argue specific points, but to him it felt as though both he and the galaxy had done a complete one-eighty in just a single vorn. He had gone from spy and warrior, to a musician living with his sparkmate. The Autobots had gone from fighting Decepticons continuously for millions of vorns, to living alongside them, as well as thousands of Neutrals. His conjunx had gone from being a tactician dedicated to defeating the evil that Megatron represented, to helping rebuild the world that both sides helped destroy.

Jazz’s gaze rested on the monument again. Before he had seen it as a glowing ball of fiery destruction, but now he could see it as points converging on the globe in the middle... Becoming one.  
“Jazz.”

Glancing up, Jazz smiled at the Praxian standing next to the bench. Prowl’s door wings fluttered in greeting. “Hey, Prowler.” He patted the bench next to him, and Prowl took the seat that Orion Pax had vacated. “How’d your meeting go?”

Prowl glanced around the square, his optics narrowing slightly, before answering. “Lord Starscream,” he said, emphasizing the leader’s title slightly, “and the rest of the Council expressed their gratitude for the information that you were able to deliver.” He rested a hand on Jazz’s thigh strut. “The remediation team had reached just a few hundred meters from the cavity where the second bomb was waiting. And our engineers were able to determine that it was, indeed, still active.”

“Oh, slag,” Jazz muttered. “What are they gonna do?”

“It has already been done. Based on the information that you and I provided to them, the Cybertronian Council sought assistance from the Galactic Council. They were able to provide expertise, and are in the process of disarming and dismantling the device.”

Jazz exvented softly. “So it’s done,” he said. He looked back up at the monument. “The information that Bumblebee and Trailbreaker died for... It did help,” he said, letting his sadness seep into his field.

“It did,” Prowl agreed. He took Jazz’s hand and simply held it. “But we could not have done it without you bringing the information to us.”

“Luck of the draw, I guess,” Jazz said quietly. 

They sat in a contemplative silence for a while, watching the setting sun reflecting off the fractured surface of the monument while mechs walked below it. 

Finally, Jazz patted Prowl’s leg. “Remember that new bar we saw a few cycles ago in our neighbourhood?” he asked. “Smokey said it was pretty good. If we get there early enough, it shouldn’t be too busy.”

Prowl nodded and stood, but said, “I am not sure I know how to get there. I did not note its location.”

“Don’t worry,” Jazz said, walking alongside Prowl out to the street. He turned to Prowl with a wide smile. “I remember the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And that's a wrap!
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and feedback; I appreciated every single comment, even if I didn't respond. <3 I am super stoked that folks seemed to enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> As I said earlier, it's been a good 30 years since I've written any fanfic (other than a drabble here or there), and this was a blast. I already have a sequel for this story percolating in my mind, but I think it needs a bit more cooking before I can start writing it. In the meantime there are some cut scenes from this one and other supplementary stuff that I might polish up and post.

**Author's Note:**

> I also posted a few extra chapters that didn't fit into this work as bonus material in [Anamnesis: Extras](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11730966/chapters/26431410).
> 
>  
> 
> **Legend**
> 
>  
> 
> [[hardline communication]]  
> [[ _hardline emotions_ ]]  
> ::comms::
> 
> klik: a minute-ish  
> groon: an hour-ish  
> cycle: a day-ish  
> deca-cycle: 10 cycles, so about a week and a half-ish  
> orbital-cycle: a month-ish  
> vorn: works out to 80-ish of our years
> 
> And for those curious about the title:  
>  **Anamnesis** , noun  
> recollection, in particular.  
> * the remembering of things from a supposed previous existence (often used with reference to Platonic philosophy).  
> * in medicine, a patient's account of a medical history.  
> * in religion, the part of the Eucharist in which the Passion, Resurrection, and Ascension of Christ are recalled.


End file.
